


Hidden Language

by amarillogrande



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Dance, Anal Sex, Angst, Big Bang Challenge, Blow Jobs, Bottom Dean, Dancer Castiel, Dancer Dean, Dancer Sam, Dancing, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Drug Use, Excessive Use of Song Lyrics, Fluff, Hip Hop, JUST TALK TO EACH OTHER, M/M, Miscommunication, References to Dean/Other(s), Rimming, Sexual Content, Tattooed Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 07:55:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 60,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5040247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amarillogrande/pseuds/amarillogrande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Las Alas Academy. A formidable-looking place, all brick building and ivy climbing the walls, nestled in the heart of the city. To be accepted is a pipe dream, to succeed is a miracle. When Naomi Alas left the National Ballet, amidst much gossip and whispered rumors, she walked out with her head held high, and started her own school the next year. Within five years it was one of the most prestigious names in the country, hell—any kid with a pair of ballet shoes and a teacher worth their salt instilled in them the hope of one day walking the hallowed halls of Alas.<br/>So why was Dean here again?<br/>-<br/>Castiel supposes life could be a lot worse. He’s finally got out of ballet, he hasn’t got kicked out of his apartment yet, and oh, yeah—he’s got a competition coming up that’s his entire future on a plate.</p><p>The last thing he needs is a distraction.</p><p>A DCBB 2015 Fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first time participating in the DCBB, and it was an amazing experience. I want to thank my amazing artist [Emilie](http://hellosaidthemoonisafangirl.tumblr.com/), who was so patient with my strange and sporadic writing process, and who made some of the most beautiful art I've ever laid eyes on. And also to [Onja](http://appleblossomdean.tumblr.com/), my friend and wonderful beta, who helped me with all those dumb tense switches.  
> Thank you so much! ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Five, six, seven, eight.

 

   

 

 

 

Dean hikes his bag up further on his shoulder, pushing through the crowd. It’s usually never like this, but right now—there’s a swarm of students around the entrance into West Hall, and he squirms his way through them, trying to keep that head of long blond hair in sight.

“Jo, wait up—“

He finally squeezes past most of them, and they step into the blissfully cool entryway inside, Jo chewing her lip as she takes in the new surroundings.

“Hmmph.”

 

They start off, trying to ignore the looks.

 

Usually each department stayed in their lane, no crossovers, no mixing. But thanks to renovation work in the Main Building, rooms were changed, classes were shuffled, and Dean was suddenly seeing new kids he had theoretically been going to school with for over a year. Most of them ignore him and Jo, sashaying and/or swaggering past them like they’re made of air. Dean rolls his eyes, readjusting his cap.

 

“Can’t tell who’s getting more stares, me or you,” he mutters.

Jo traces her finger down the paper, shrugging nonchalantly.

“You are a fine piece of ass.”

Dean huffs, crossing his arms.

“Like any of them would deign to speak to us, let alone flirt with me.”

“Charlie talks to us.”

“Yeah, but Charlie’s not a stuck-up asshole.”

Dean eyes a couple kids who pass by, who are making no effort to hide their stares. He makes eye contact with one of the haughty ballroom girls, who’s unabashedly staring at him. He smirks, and winks at her. She scoffs audibly and turns her nose up, hurrying to catch up with her friends. Dean scowls.

“You’d think they’d never seen a hip hopper before.”

“Maybe you should start wearing tights.”

“Only if you do, Harvelle.”

She flashes him a smug grin.

“C’mon. Room 217.”

 

Dean follows her through the twisting halls, nodding to the people he recognizes, keeping an eye out for a flash of red hair. Charlie said she’d meet up with them today, to help them with a couple choreo issues. He checks his phone. Nada.

He nearly runs into Jo, who has stopped, peering in through the window.

“People still in there,” she says, sounding annoyed. “They’re three minutes over.”

Dean slides his phone back into his pocket, dropping his bag.

“Stretch or something.”

Jo ignores him, teeth worrying the ring in her bottom lip. She crosses her arms and positions herself directly in front of the window, watching judgmentally. Dean snorts, sliding down the wall to sit, propping his elbows up on his knees.

He takes the opportunity to look around, checking out the place. He’s never been in this building before. It’s nice. Good to know Naomi had been pushing hip hop classes into the shittier rooms. This place is like a fucking mansion, comparatively.

Seriously, fuck renovations. He cannot wait until this crap is over.

 

He checks out the people, too. Shamelessly, he might add. Some of the tights and dance pants don’t leave much to the imagination.

And Dean likes guessing sometimes, who does what. The girl in the corner with the tap shoes, well—that was a no-brainer. Tall dude with the snotty look on his face passing by—definitely ballet. Chick with the twirly skirt—ballroom. Dean continues his scan of the hall, and—

 

Now that guy? No fucking clue.

 

Dean tips his cap up, squinting at him. He’s probably around the same age as he is, 26 or so. He would’ve guessed contemporary, the way he’s dressed, but there’s such a fucking attitude to the way he’s standing that has Dean completely nonplussed.

And he’s got tattoos.

 

Nobody at Alas has fucking tattoos. Not exactly something you want when your profession involves showing a lot of skin, and everyone here is hoping to make it professionally in some capacity—so the couple patches of skin he manages to glimpse on most of the dancers here are decidedly bare. Now Dean himself is perfectly proud of his tattoo, and even sadistically enjoys the scandalized looks he gets from the other kids sometimes—but this is different. Hell, even Charlie keeps hers hidden, but this guy looks completely unconcerned by his appearance, and Dean shamelessly ogles, peering at the lines of ink visible underneath his loose dance tank.

 

Dude must have a sixth sense or something, because he frowns, as if feeling curious eyes on him—and he turns—to catch Dean right in the act of gawking at him.

The guy cocks an eyebrow.

“Can I help you?” He asks bluntly.

 

Dean flusters, swallowing thickly. He looks away, and that’s when Jo—bless her—tugs his arm, ushering him into the classroom.

“They’re done. Let’s go.”

 

Dean yanks his bag up from the floor and heads after her, putting that whole awkward encounter out of his mind.

 

x

 

“Seriously. Thank you so much.”

 

Castiel plops himself down in front of the mirror, rubbing his face.

“Ohhh. You’re lucky I love you, Bradbury.”

 

She makes a face.

“Rough night?”

He glances up.

“You have no idea.”

 

He leans back, watching as she does a couple experimental turns. She’s already all warmed up, something like three classes already this morning? Jesus—Castiel could never handle that. So all he has to do is sit back and watch. He slaps his cheek. Okay, wake up. Focus.

“How did you manage to get me to do this again?”

“My wily feminine powers of persuasion,” Charlie says lightly, critically eying her posture in the mirror. She straightens her shoulders, tipping her head back. She tendus, plies, and goes into a double.

Castiel scrubs a hand over his face.

“You know I’m dropping out of ballet, right?”

 

Charlie falls out of her pirouette.

“Say what now?”

 

He shrugs.

“I was planning on telling Naomi today.”

“Damn. You’re really going for it?”

“Yep.”

 

Charlie squats beside him, patting his knee.

“Good luck. Dragon lady won’t take that lightly.”

He snorts.

“You’re telling me.”

“Well.”

 

She pops back up, heading back to the center of the floor.

“Ballet or not, you’ve still got one of the best eyes at this school. And I want your opinion.”

Castiel shakes his head slightly, smiling.

“I’ll take it from the top.”

“Okay.”

She gets into position, gracefully pliéing into open fourth.

“Fire away,” Castiel says.

 

x

 

“And I want your final music edits by next week, _at the latest_ ,” Pam yells at them as they leave.

“That means you, Gallagher!”

 

Jo glances down at the phone in her lap, tying up her messy hair.

“Charlie’s just finishing up, y’wanna grab lunch?”

Dean makes a face.

“Can’t. Sam’s carpool bailed on him, so now of course _I_ gotta go pick him up.”

She snorts, standing and hiking up her sweats. Dean stands too, wincing a little. Ohhhh yeah. He'd definitely have some nice bruises by tomorrow.

 

They run into her in the hallway, and Charlie smiles brightly, wrapping at arm around his middle.

“How was class? You comin’ to lunch?”

“Class was fine. And can’t.” His phone buzzes against his leg, probably yet another text from Sam. He just got out of class, Jesus.

Reminder: give Sam a chill pill.

“Gotta pick up my brother,” he says. Charlie socks him good-naturedly.

“Look at you, being all responsible and shit.”

“Bite me.”

Jo comes up behind him.

“You finished?”

Charlie nods.

“Yeah. Just had someone helping me with my solo. You now, actually, you should meet him! I think you’d—“

“No, Charlie,” Dean says, not looking up from his phone. He’d had enough of Charlie’s attempts to set him up. The last time was a disaster. Sure, Lydia had been hot, but she’d also been kind of…intense. Maneater.

 

She huffs, switching her weight, her ballet shoes knocking together.

“Fine. Your loss. Because he seriously is awesome. Nice enough to give me some pointers.” She chews her lip. “Kind of freaking out about the show coming up.”

“Nah, I’m sure you’ll be amazing,” Jo says, giving her a soft smile.

Charlie’s cheeks color slightly, a fact Dean doesn’t fail to notice.

“Well.”

 

He disentangles himself from the girls, heading off towards the exit.

“Enjoy your lunch—next time, I promise.”

“Holding you to it!” comes Charlie’s cheerful reply, and Dean makes eye contact with Jo once her back is turned.

He waggles his eyebrows. She flips him off.

 

x

 

Castiel leans his head against the wall.

_Okay. I can do this. Yes, I am hungover, but that’s exactly why I’m out here, because if I were thinking clearly there’s no way I’d be about to walk into this office._

He stays there for a minute, contemplating just turning around and walking away.

Eventually, he sighs, and goes in.

 

“Castiel. You’re on time.”

 

He bites back his snarky response, and sits down.

He spills out his carefully prepared speech, and as expected, her reaction is less than stellar.

“No, Castiel. I won’t tell you again.”

“Please, I barely ask you for anything, it’s just—“

“I don’t see why it’s necessary.”

Naomi straightens the nameplate on her desk, looking completely unconcerned at his frustration. He runs a hand through his hair, her eyes tracking the movement. He remembers _that_ lecture.

_Why did you have to ruin such a beautiful natural color with some ridiculous neon dye? Honestly, Castiel…_

“Maybe the thirty miles of highway would consider it necessary.”

“Do you remember what happened the last time I loaned you my car?”

“That was _not_ my fault. And it was just a flat tire.”

Castiel leans his elbows on the desk.

“Mom. Please.”

 

Naomi sighs.

“Fine. But I want it returned _that night_. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds quickly, his face breaking out into a triumphant smile.

Naomi adjusts some of the folders on her desk, quickly flipping through one.

“I don’t understand what’s so special about this…exposition, or—“

“Dude, _come_ _on_. It’s the 700 Crew. Only the greatest contemporary hip-hop group in the world right now—“

“Might I remind you, you’re in this school to become a professional ballet dancer. And I am not a ‘dude’. Continue with Mom. Or ‘Principal’, if you’re feeling especially formal.”

“Yeah, about that.”

 

Castiel coughs slightly, shifting in his seat.

“I don’t want to do ballet anymore.”

She glances up sharply.

“Excuse me?”

Castiel rushes to explain.

“I’ve never been good at it! Not in the way you were, or half the students at this school.”

Naomi opens her mouth to argue, but grudgingly closes it again. It’s true. Castiel never had the discipline that ballet requires. Or the willingness to follow orders.

Castiel anxiously twists his fingers together.

“Mom, please. You have to let me transfer.”

 

Naomi tucks a nonexistent strand of flyaway hair behind her ear.

“I won’t give you preferential treatment,” she says stiffly. “We agreed on that, Castiel.”

“Then let me talk to the professors. I won’t even mention you.”

Castiel shakes his head.

“I just seriously can’t do ballet anymore. I can’t.”

“Obviously,” Naomi remarks dryly. “My staff tells me you haven’t been going to your scheduled classes for about six months.”

“Yeah,” he says sheepishly. “Sorry,” he adds, after a moment.

 

Naomi sighs, tapping her pen against the desk.

“Fine.”

She pretends to ignore him as his face lights up.

“But we never had this conversation.”

Castiel beams. “Understood.”

 

He stands to leave, slinging his bag over his shoulder.

She calls after him.

“And take that horrible thing out of your eyebrow!”

“Ain’t gonna happen!” He yells back.

 

Naomi purses her lips, shaking her head as he slips out the door.

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel tries to look slightly more presentable the next day. He leaves behind the ripped jeans and puts on a nice black button up. He might have known most of the teachers since he could walk, but he’s not that rude. Rachel agrees to his request, surprisingly, and Crowley was a complete dick (definitely _not_ a surprise). So that just leaves Tessa.

 

Castiel looks over the schedule posted outside the door, frowning.

Tessa is in the middle of class, a class he’s actually supposed to be in, as it's a required technique class for all the three-year program students, but Castiel really needs to get this figured out, so he’s tempted to dip into her class and talk to her now. He peeks through the window.

She’s teaching, of course, but there are some assistants who are the ones mostly doing the corrections, and Tessa always liked him. Castiel bites his lip. She probably wouldn’t mind him coming in for a few minutes.

He puts on his most charming smile and opens the door.

 

 

When the door opens and Dean sees who walks through it, he nearly drops the girl he’s working with. Which of course the professor sees and she advances on him, yelling about proper form and technique for what seems to be forever, while holy-fuck-hot-tattoo-blue-eyed-god stands behind her watching, a slight smirk on his face.

Dean blinks and focuses on Tessa’s face, and nods sheepishly when she ends her rant. He turns back to the girl, Amy, that’s her name, right—and tries the lift again. He manages to hold her up for about two seconds before he chickens out and supports her with his other hand, and she squabbles at him when he sets her down.

Dean barely hears her. Christ, he only enrolled in this partnering class because he and Jo wanted to put some cooler moves into their routines, and they needed some groundwork. It took a lot of pleading and blackmailing—but Jo finally got Dean to agree, and now, she’s not even here. (Dentist appointment—who the hell still goes to the dentist?) So he’s with stuck up Amy, who hates his guts. Like most of the kids in this class. They all hate the hip-hopper intruding on their oh-so-perfect ballet turf. Whatever. He endures the judgmental smirks and muttered conversations, and Tessa seems to like him well enough.

 

But then there’s this guy.

 

 

“Castiel.”

Tessa crosses her arms, a slight smirk on her face.

“Finally decided to show up?”

“Yeah,” Castiel says, smiling apologetically.  “I, uh…actually wanted to talk to you about that.”

He explains quickly, feeling a little guilty when Tessa’s face falls.

“Oh, Castiel. Why?”

Castiel shrugs.

“I’ve decided to pursue a more modern path. Not that ballet can’t be modern,” he adds hastily, seeing Tessa’s eyebrows rise questioningly. “It’s really not for me. I stuck with it, because I thought I’d eventually get used to it or feel inspiration bloom, but after two years, I still feel the same.”

Tessa taps her foot. She doesn’t look happy, but she nods.

“I understand your frustration, Castiel. I agree that you are more suited for contemporary. You should talk to Hester, see if you can get into her class.”

Castiel’s face lights up.

“Yes, of course.”

 

Tessa purses her lips.

“Though I do wish you would stay in this class. There’s a lot of foundation work we do, and not just for ballet.” She glances over her shoulder. “Take him, for example.”

She points at someone, and to Castiel’s surprise, it’s at the same student, the one who was ogling him in the hall the other day.

“He’s pretty new. In the hip-hop program. But he does surprisingly well.” She turns back to him, crossing her arms.

“If he can survive in this class, surely you can, too.”

Castiel glances over. The guy’s not looking at them anymore, but there’s a red flush on the back of his neck that tells Castiel he caught him staring.

“I’ll doublecheck. Once I get my new schedule. If they overlap—“

“Of course. I understand. But I hope to see you around,” Tessa says, smiling.

 

Dean kinda just goes through the motions, focusing intently on Tessa and the kid in the corner. When he sees her point and their two gazes drift his way, he whirls Amy around so that his back is to them, so fast that she squawks and hits him on the arm.  He picks her up without warning, and to his surprise, executes the lift perfectly.

 

Castiel raises his eyebrows in surprise. Damn. Tessa sees the reflection in the mirror and immediately rushes to his side, gushing over the technique, making him do it again, calling the whole class to watch. Castiel watches amusedly, before sauntering towards the door. He’ll tell her tomorrow that he will definitely be joining the class.

 

x

 

 

Dean gets distracted for the next couple of days. Show’s coming up, and he still hasn’t nutted up and asked Naomi about Sam, which Jo is constantly on his ass about. _Why are we even practicing, Dean, if we’re not going to be able to perform it,_ blah, blah, blah…

And Sam’s being a tetchy bitch ‘cause the rehearsals are cutting into his study time. Of course finals fall around the same time as this show, wouldn’t you know. He nearly bit Dean’s head off the other day for playing his music too loud ‘after hours’. Jesus. Living with your brother can be straight up Hell sometimes.

And today is the cherry on top of a fantastically shitty week.

 

He woke up late and couldn’t make coffee, and then his baby broke down about two blocks from his apartment, which meant he had to call Bobby to get her pulled in special. Which _then_ means he’ll have to spend extra hours at the garage to fix her up. Extra hours he does not have. Then he had to wait for the damn bus in the rain, and had finally got here, only to realize the normal schedule was still all screwed to hell, displacing Dean’s regular class, pushing it nearly an hour back from the usual time.

Dean chews his lip, debating whether or not to go grab something to eat really quick. He had skipped out on breakfast after his car decided to just give up in the middle of the road. But then he’ll probably feel like throwing up all through class. Ugh.

Looks like he’s going hungry again today.

 

He’s texting Bobby (amazingly, the one thing the man _has_ learned to do is text), arguing about parts and equipment and when he can make it down to the shop when Charlie sidles up and hands him a granola bar.

He looks up at her.

“How did you—“

“You got that look, Winchester.”

“Charlie, you’re a lifesaver.”

She shrugs. “I know.”

Then she smirks, expression mischievous.

“You see the sub for the movement class?”

Dean frowns, ripping the wrapper off the granola bar with his teeth and stuffing it in his mouth.

“No.”

She just continues to leer at him.

“Oh. Just wondering.”

Dean narrows his eyes.

The classroom has a pretty big section of windows, so he could have watched if he wanted, like some of the other students were doing, but he had been more focused on griping and his own self-pity.

He glances over disinterestedly and doubletakes.

Greek god. Waterfall eyes. Tattoo boy. Teaching the damn class.

Dean blinks. Who the hell is this guy? He just assumed he’s a student, but if he was teaching the class—

 

The guy lifts his hand, calling the class to a halt as he walks over to the stereo, mouth moving with some unheard corrections. Dean realizes his nose is practically pushed up against the glass and shoves himself back, nervously flattening his hair, as if that could hide him from those piercing blue eyes.

He bends down over the speaker, restarting the track. He steps back, one hand leaning on the barre as the rest of the dancers get into position, that sort of trance they all sink into as they wait for their count, stretching out any last kinks, mentally running through the more difficult choreo.

The beat starts, hard and thumping, and Dean watches, spellbound.

The style’s unlike anything he’s ever seen.

 

_I’ll be your light, your match, your burning sun_

_I’ll be the bright, in black, that’s making you run_

 

Contemporary, but almost hip-hop too, all at once—a different sort of edge that leaves Dean fascinated. There are the frilly moves every contemporary dance routine has, too many pirouettes and extensions and everyone trying to one up each other—

 

_I’ll be doin’ this, if you had a doubt_

_Til the love runs out, til the love runs out._

 

But there’s something _hard_ about it—so gritty and down to earth that has a strange feeling welling in Dean’s chest, tugging at him in a strange exhilaration that he associates with his own dancing.

It has to be a new routine—some of the dancers struggle through the steps or forget them entirely, nowhere near the perfection Naomi demands and gets so close to showtime—but Dean assumes since the schedule’s all fucked, this guy decided to do whatever he damn pleased today. Which makes Dean’s crush all the more intense all of the sudden.

 

_I got my mind up, man, I can’t let go_

_I’m killing every second til it saves my soul_

 

There’s some pair work, couples flying across the tiny rehearsal room’s floor, and Dean’s surprised the guy hasn’t been kicked in the face yet. He’s shouting out comments over the throbbing beat of the music, his brow pinched. Dean is suddenly very painfully aware of the ink on his skin, seeming to glow underneath his sweat and the hot studio lights.

 

_Theres a maniac out in front of me_

_Got an angel on my shoulder and Mestopheles_

 

“Hold it!”

 

The music abruptly cuts out and everyone falls out of it in different ways, some stopping immediately, others finishing the phrase or stubbornly continuing on, even though the boy’s stepped forward, a strange glint in his eyes.

“Turn goes on the _third_ count, it’s one two _three_ four, like this—“

He takes a step back, spinning into one of the most graceful pirouettes Dean’s ever seen, coming out of it flawlessly to turn back to the class, nodding his head.

“Yeah?”

A couple nod, hands on their hips, breathing hard. Some just look annoyed.

“Again. From the top. I’ll do it with you.”

Dean holds his breath.

 

The guy walks over to the stereo again, lifting up his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

 

 _Abs_ , Dean's brain supplies unhelpfully.

 

The music starts all over again, but this time it’s completely different.

Dean can’t tear his eyes from the guy. There’s just something about the way he moves—that lithe body, blue hair and blue eyes flashing—all of them turn to the side wall for a moment, in a choreographed move, a flick of the hand, and—

Those eyes catch his own.

And the bastard fuckin’ _smirks._

 

They turn out of it and the routine continues, but there’s a sort of cockiness to the boy’s movements that wasn’t there before, and Dean pushes away from the window, his cheeks burning. He shoves his hands in his pockets, stalking back over to Charlie. She doesn’t say anything, but pops her gum in an annoyingly smug sort of way. Her gaydar is too accurate for her own good, Dean sourly thinks.

 

He’s managed to think himself into a particularly foul mood by the time the movement class ends, and he watches as the guy calls the class to a halt, people starting to pack up their stuff and filing out the door.

Dean bids a hasty goodbye to Charlie and makes a beeline for the door, ignoring her knowing smile. Normally he would wait for Jo, but they still got five minutes, and Dean is kind of pathetic, so he slips inside even as people are still leaving, making a show of pulling shit out of his dance bag as he spies on the group clumped around the stereo. The girl next to him looks vaguely familiar, and she smiles at him as she slips out of her jazz shoes, her red hair damp with sweat.

 

The guy is dragging a hand through his sweaty hair, laughing with some dark-haired girl, waves of black spilling over her shoulders, and a tall skinnier dude, his laughter cadent and sounding vaguely foreign. Dean doesn’t like it.

 

The song they were using from the routine is done, something else pumping through the studio’s speakers now, but the guy hasn’t bothered to turn it off.

 

Dean watches them from the corner of his eyes, shucking his street shoes and pulling on his sneakers, hating himself for trying to eavesdrop.

The redhead slings her bag over her shoulder, heading for the group in the corner. Dean watches her go. She has a nice ass, he thinks. He should think she’s attractive. He should probably try to ask her out. But his eyes slide from her tight dance pants to the guy beside her, his dark hair messy from the class and his smile breathless, slinging an arm over her shoulder.

The four of them are talking, like normal people do, and Dean is a fucking creep.

He drops his eyes back to his laces, feeling his cheeks burn.

 

Cool it, Winchester.

He leans back against the studio wall, deciding to stretch a little. He bends over and grabs his foot, exhaling slowly. All he needs is for Jo to show up so he doesn’t feel like a complete idiot.

 

Eventually, Pamela strides in, and kicks them out, amicably enough. The guy dips his head, pulling his iPod from the jack and tucking it into his pocket. The girl with the dark hair gives him a short secretive smile, and he rolls his eyes, but he bends his knees and she hops on his back, tugging at his ear a little. Dean burns with stupidity at such a blatant display of familiar affection.

He shifts her a little bit higher on his hips, heading towards the door. He looks up, directly at him, and Dean’s heart stops.

But he just smiles, nudging him with his foot as he passes.

“Nice to see you again,” he says, winking.

 

Then he’s gone, the girl’s arms looped lazily around his neck, the memory of his dizzying smile in Dean’s brain.

 

 

x

 

“Heading to Beanster’s, Cas, y’comin’?”

“Yeah, I’ll catch up.”

Castiel shifts Meg off his back, and she saunters off after Anna and Balthazar, twisting her long hair into a braid. Castiel presses a hand against the wall and grabs his ankle, stretching out his quad, watching through the windows.

 

Dean drags his fingers through his hair, taking a deep breath. Okay. Class time. Focus.

 

Jo finally shows up, and she distracts him with the latest end-of-the-world fight she got into with her mom, and Dean just listens, acting as her sounding board as he starts to warm up. Pam’s already got the music going, and Dean tries to lose himself in the beat, pushing everything else from his mind. No worries about the steps, or his broken car, or trying to make rent. Just the music. Just this. Just him.

One of the things Dean likes about Pam is her free spirit, how she lets them do whatever for warmup. Hell, half of the improvisations people come up with in these first 15 minutes of class usually finds its way into the actual choreography. Dean pushes himself today, working out his frustrations with his body.

He really needs this, to blow off the crappy week he’s had. As he starts to sweat, he can feel his stress melting away. This is what he’ll never get enough of. How a beat and the movement of his own body makes him feel like he can take on the whole world.

 

 

Castiel lowers his leg slowly, raising an eyebrow.

Hmm. Tessa was right. The guy is good. Not quite his style, obviously, but Castiel can appreciate talent. He’s at Alas, after all. But the guy’s got something beyond the usual technicality. He’s just messing around really, half of his moves aren’t even full-out, but every beat, every hit is landed just in time with the music, and Castiel can’t tear his eyes away.

He’s got a feeling, an understanding for the music that just seems instinctive, natural—something it takes other choreographers years to learn. Seriously. This guy is just messing around and he’s got his finger on the pulse, the heart of the music, his silly little warmup making Castiel feel something he doesn’t usually feel even watching the most carefully choreographed of routines.

He takes note of some of his moves, wondering if he could incorporate something like that into his own routines.

A good dancer can come from anywhere. That’s what he’s always believed. And despite all the talent at Alas, it was rare, really rare to find someone who had such a knack for music, for dance in this way. Castiel finds himself fascinated. He makes a mental note to thank Rachel later for asking him to sub today.

Despite Naomi’s attempt to not give him special treatment, the staff like him, a bit too much for his mom’s paranoid tastes, but Castiel doesn’t care. Rachel knows he’s Naomi’s kid, and she lets him take over every now and again. And if the other students don’t like it, they’ll simply have to deal with it.

He always leaps at these kind of chances. Choreographing something is almost as thrilling as the actual dancing itself—he knows he could never give up one for the other, but he’s realistic. Half of the people in this industry don’t leave it by choice—injury, lack of jobs, just being too old—you name it. He’s so psyched for his routine with Meg. He’s done little things before, but this is the first time Naomi is letting him put his own routine on stage. He’s going to show everyone what he’s capable of.

 

One thing he’s always been wistful about is that he’s never been good at hip-hop. He loves the style, and can’t wait for the Crew show this weekend, but he’s suddenly wondering why he’s never bothered to watch any of the hip hop classes before. He curls his lip. His mother’s bias rubbing off on him, he thinks wryly.

 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he slides it out.

 

**Meg**

**> >** _u comin bluebird_

 

Castiel snorts, shaking his head. With one last glance at the dancers in the classroom, he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads off down the hall.

 

x

 

 

The next day finds Dean, buried up to his elbows in the Impala. He finally caught a break and managed to get to Bobby’s early, and decided to try to coax Baby back into working condition.

 

“She seriously said that?”

“Yeah.”

“God,” Dean mutters, tightening a bolt. “What a bitch.”

“Yeah, but it’s not my only paper,” Sam says, shuffling a deck of cards as he leans against the old workbench. “Just because I argued her approach to the case was completely unethical, Eve hates me. Psychotic freak.” He snorts. “How she became a professor of law, I have no idea.”

“She’s hot though.”

Sam drops the cards on the table.

“Dean. Ew.”

“Hey.” Dean smirks, wiping some of the grease off his hands. “Crazy can be hot.”

“No thanks,” Sam says airily. “Not about to bang my professor.”

“Get me her number then.”

“You better be workin’ out there!”

 

Bobby comes shuffling out of his office, squinting grumpily at them.

“I don’t pay you to stand around and look pretty.”

“Bobby, you’re not paying me at all.” Dean wipes his forehead, grabbing a line wrench. “This is my car.”

“You’re lucky I don’t dock your next paycheck, boy.”

 

Dean snorts, leaning back over Baby’s engine. Bobby crosses his arms, looking between the two of them.

“You comin’ around for dinner soon, or what?” He grumbles. “Swear you boys been avoiding me.”

Sam laughs.

“After this show, Bobby, promise.”

Bobby huffs. Sam gets a glint in his eye, and he sticks his hands in his pockets, his voice nonchalant.

“You gonna invite Ellen?”

“What’s that?”

“Ellen,” Sam says again, smirking. “She was making noises about you starving to death because all you know how to do is microwave and crack open beer bottles.”

Bobby swats his newspaper at him before stomping off.

“Oh, can it.”

 

Dean chuckles, lying back on the creeper, and slides under the Impala.

“I swear, he gets grumpier every year,” he says.

“I heard that!”

Bobby’s voice floats out from the office window.

“Ears of a bat, kid.”

 

Sam snorts, kicking at the gravel of the shop floor with his shoe.

“Dean, is this going to take much longer? I wanted to get a couple of hours in.”

“Hey, you can wait, or you can walk home.”

“Seriously, dude?”

Sam comes around the side of the car, squatting down.

“You know this car inside and out. I know you can give me an ETD.”

Dean sighs.

“Fine. Ten minutes.”

 

 

Nine minutes and twenty-three seconds later, Dean closes up the hood.

“Got it.”

Sam stands up.

“We good to go?”

“Yeah, lemme wash my hands, then we’ll go.”

“’Kay,” he says, grabbing his backpack.

“And I’m cooking tonight, because you nearly burned the kitchen down last time.”

“Dude—that was one time!”

 

Dean laughs, slipping inside to the cool back room, and starts scrubbing down his arms in the sink. Bobby comes in and stands next to him.

“You still comin’ on Friday?”

“Yes, Bobby, I’m coming,” Dean says, turning off the water. “I’m coming to my shift like I have done every week for the past three years.”

Bobby grunts.

Dean wipes his hands on a rag, leaning back against the sink.

“But you remember I’m off for the week of the 13th, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yer show.”

Bobby scratches his chin.

“How much’re tickets again?”

Dean looks up.

“Oh, you—you don’t have to come—I know it’s not your thing—“

“Oh, come on.” Bobby grumbles. “My boy’s in a show. Of course I’m gonna go.” He shifts, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Me and Ellen gotta support you two. And Jo.”

Dean smirks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah? Gonna go with Ellen?”

Bobby growls halfheartedly.

“Oh, shut up.”

Dean laughs, grabbing his keys from the rack on the wall.

 

“Get out of here before I smack ya with a hammer!” Bobby calls after him.

 

 

x

 

Dean pulls into the parking lot, slamming the door behind him. He looks up at the front doors, a small smile on his face. Then a pair of girls passes by him, whispering obviously, throwing glances at his car, and his smile drops. He scowls, shoulders his bag and heads up the steps.

 

Las Alas Academy. A formidable-looking place, all brick building and ivy climbing the walls, nestled in the heart of the city. To be accepted is a pipe dream, to succeed is a miracle. When Naomi Alas left the National Ballet Company, amidst much gossip and whispered rumors, she walked out with her head held high, and started her own school the next year. Within five years it was one of the most prestigious names in the country. Hell—any kid with a pair of ballet shoes and a teacher worth their salt instilled in them the hope of one day walking the hallowed halls of Alas. 

No matter where you’re from, if you get into this place, you’re practically guaranteed a position at a dance company, who snatch up anyone with Alas on their CV. It’s hard to get in. Those with mediocre skills and lined pockets get shepherded to the best auditions, and the rest have to claw their way to the top. Dean’s already fought tooth and nail to gain his place here, and hell if he’s going to let a couple of stares bother him.

And yeah, he’s always felt out of place next to all these hoity-toity fucks, most of whom got the best training money could buy since they were four years old. Dean knows they look down on him, with his grease stained fingers and ragged sweatpants. But the hip-hop department is a legitimate part of this academy, and he’s a student here, just the same as everyone else. There are the yearly classes that most people attend, just for those looking to improve their skill, but there are the three or four year programs that bestow a degree at the end, a Master of Fine Arts. Which Dean was a part of, thank you very much. So they just have to fucking deal with it. Let them talk behind his back all they want. He doesn’t give a shit. As long as he can dance.

 

He’s already in kind of a pissy mood, so when he meets up with Charlie, he just unloads.

 

“Bobby is making me pick up three extra shifts over the next two weeks, and I told him I got class and rehearsal and trying to make sure I don’t fuckin’ starve on top of it all—and it’s not like my apartment’s the Taj Mahal or anything, but that dick of a landlord is jacking up the rent on me and so as much as I’d _like_ to work more, I just don’t have the damn time—“

“Uh-huh,” Charlie says patiently.

“And Sammy’s still riding my ass about this damn routine but you know I can’t just march into the main office, because it’s not like I can afford to get kicked out, so excuse me for being a little pinched for time right now—“

 

Castiel hears the voice before he sees it, complaining about a whole plethora of things, but mostly money—which Castiel can sympathize with, but right now he has a headache, and the last thing he wants is some dipshit yelling in the hallways.

 

Dean scowls at Charlie, who had heaved her sixth sigh in the past five minutes. He knows he’s gone off on a bit of a tangent, but he had been looking for an opportunity to vent, so he doesn’t end up sitting at home tonight with a whiskey bottle and wallowing about his shitty life.

Dean’s so busy making sure she sees the annoyed expression on his face that he doesn’t really watch where he’s going. His bag swings around the corner before the rest of him, and completely decks the guy walking the opposite way.

 

Castiel was looking at his phone, biting his lip as he texted Anna back about their costumes ( _I said no fucking leather, goddammit)_ and suddenly finds himself horizontal, saved from falling at the last minute from the dude who rammed into him.

 

“Shit—sorry—“

Dean pulls the guy up, and freezes.

 

It’s the guy. _The_ guy.

 

Charlie picks up the phone and holds it out. Dean realizes he’s still holding his hands and quickly lets go. The guy takes his phone and thanks her, slipping it into his pocket.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. Wait, they know each other?

“Hey,” Charlie says back.

“Whoa there, freckles.” He smirks. “You should watch where you’re going.”

Dean bristles, but the guy just smiles wider, hiking his bag up on his shoulder.

“I thought dancers were supposed to be graceful,” he says, winking at him.

Before Dean can even open his mouth to shoot back some retort, the guy’s slipping off down the hallway, that infuriating smirk firmly locked into place.

 

He turns to Charlie, ready to launch into his ‘can you believe that guy’ tirade, but she’s got a strange expression on her face, and Dean pauses, narrowing his eyes. That spells trouble.

 

“Well.”

She suddenly clears her throat and turns, tugging at his elbow.

“Not all of us can be Baryshnikov,” she says cheerfully. “C’mon. I’m going to be late for class.”

 

The guy disappears around the corner, but not before glancing back one last time. Dean blushes when he gets caught still staring after him, and quickly hastens after Charlie.

 

x

Dean doesn’t understand it. He’s never even seen the guy before, and now three times in one week? Sure, Alas is prestigious, but it isn’t _big._ There are barely 100 people enrolled in classes, total.

All because of these damn renovations, he thinks, twisting the cap off his water bottle. He’s always kept to himself, really, just going to his classes, barely paying attention to any other dancers besides Jo and Charlie—and with Sam and his job and trying to make sure they don’t get kicked out of their apartment, he’s never really cared for the going ons at school, the ever-present drama that Charlie soaks up like a weektime soap.

But then there’s this _guy_. This infuriatingly attractive guy, who’s made starring appearances in a couple of his dreams this past week, ones that make Dean blush to think about, and thank the lord he doesn’t share a room with Sam anymore.

 

It’s been two days since the…collision, two long, dragging days, and he’s still obsessing over the incredibly hot stranger.

Dean looks around for him every time they’re in the hall, giving corners a wide berth, just in case. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it until one day, when Charlie smacks him upside the head.

“Hey shifty. Go easy or you’ll pop a blood vessel.”

He chokes on his food, sputtering.

“What?”

She gives him that look.

“I know why you’re spacing, Losechester. You’re thinking about Mr. Tattoo again.” She shakes her head. “You are so damn obvious it’s not even funny anymore.”

Dean grumbles, turning back to his crappy leftover pasta. He’s not going to even dignify her with a response.

“Cas.”

 

Dean frowns.

 

He pokes at the noodles with his fork, but he can’t hold out any longer.

“What?”

“His name. It’s Castiel.” Charlie smirks. “So you can have a name to the face you’re jacking off to.”

Dean turns bright red. Her eyes widen.

“Oh my god, I was joking. You really—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Dean growls, snapping the Tupperware closed and shoving it into his bag.

Charlie is laughing harder than when they got blitzed on edibles, which is saying something. She’s nearly in tears.

“Oh-h my god—“

“I am going to murder you,” Dean hisses under his breath.

“Dean and Cassie, sittin’ in a tree—“

“I’ll tell everyone about your tattoo,” he snaps.

Charlie’s smile vanishes.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Then tell me what department he’s in. Ballet? Is that how you know him?”

Charlie huffs, sitting back.

“Maybe,” she says snidely, picking out the onions from her sandwich. “But I’ll have you know he’s transferring out.”

Dean whips his head around.

“Really? Why? Into what?”

She shrugs.

“Charlie, c’mon.”

“Too damn bad,” she retorts. “I wanna see this.”

The smile slides off his face.

“What?”

Charlie leans back, smirking at him.

“You’re not getting a lick of help on this one, Don Juan. I’ve never seen you be even halfway interested in someone before. Wanna see what kind of game you got.”

“You asshole.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Dean squints up at Sam’s towering form, helpfully standing just to the right of the sun, Jo standing behind him. Dean shields his eyes, smiling.

“Hey.”

Jo drops to the grass next to Charlie, giving her a shy smile.

“How was class, Sammy?”

“Ah, you know. Same old.” He sticks his hands in his pockets, slouching back. “You?”

“Same old,” Dean parrots back at him. He glances over at Jo and Charlie, who are whispering to each other and giggling. Dean raises an eyebrow.

“You ready?”

Jo hastily pulls back, still laughing.

“Yeah. Vámonos.”

 

Dean stands, brushing his hands on his jeans.

“Alright, see ya later, Charles.”

She smirks.

“Off to sneak your baby bro into the rehearsal room?”

“Not so damn loud, okay?” Dean hisses. Charlie raises an eyebrow at him, looking around at the completely empty lawn around them. Dean huffs.

“Sorry, just—paranoid.”

Jo snorts, shrugging on her jacket.

“Dean says he wouldn’t put it past Naomi to have microphones around the school.”

“Lady’s a control freak,” he mutters defensively.

Charlie kicks back, leaning on her elbows.

“Whatever. Just keep an eye out for Alastair.”

Jo grimaces.

“Ugh. You don’t need to tell me twice.”

“Who’s Alastair?” Sam asks.

“Creepy janitor,” Dean says. “Got eyes like a hawk and I’m pretty sure he’s in love with Naomi.”

Jo makes a face.

“Gross. Now I’m picturing it.”

Sam laughs.

“We’ll be careful.”

 

Charlie waves them off, then tips down her sunglasses, lying back on the grass.

 

x

 

Dean pops his head around the corner.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Come on.”

 

Sam and Jo follow him, completely unimpressed.

“I don’t understand why you treat this like Mission Impossible every time.”

“Shut up, Jo.”

“Seriously, Dean.” She follows him through the door, sloughing her bag off her shoulder. “We do this every week and no one ever sees.”

“Well, now you cursed it, so way to go,” Dean retorts.

Jo rolls her eyes.

 

 

Jo and Sam shuck their stuff and start warming up, but Dean’s still paranoid, so he locks the door for good measure. He’s still pretty loose from this morning, but he stretches himself out again, practicing a couple of the easier moves, just to get in the zone.

 

Sam sits up, running a hand through his hair.

“What part we doing today?”

Dean falls out of his turn, frowning at himself in the mirror.

“Figured we’d tighten up the end—there’re still a couple counts that feel iffy.”

 

They both nod, and Dean grabs his shoes from his bag, dipping down to tug at his laces. He left them untied last class and he nearly ate it as a result, so he’s actually trying to be somewhat careful today.

 

 

Sam slides on his beanie, his stupid long hair hidden mostly by the knit cap, and Dean grabs the iPod jack, hooking up his phone to the stereo. Jo bends her knees and straightens, hands to the floor before she rolls up, flexing her arms. She at least looks the part—her hair down in loose waves, sweats and white tank. Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get his brother to loosen the stick up his ass, because even now, Sam’s got a friggin’ sweater on, and a plaid button up on underneath it—he seriously must be sweating his ass off—but Dean guesses he should cut him some slack. He did just come from class, after all.

But despite that, Dean can’t help the thrill of pride that runs through him as he sees the three of them, framed in the mirror.

Jo takes her place on his left, Sam on his right, and Dean tips his hat up, running through the counts in his head.

“Right. So first eight count, we’re coming out of the freestyle part, so then we drop—hold two, three—bend, switch and pop—turn, bend and—hit.”

Sam follows along with him, and Dean nods.

“Yeah, good. You’ll go high, I’ll go middle, and Jo—“

“Got it,” she says, marking the steps briefly.

 

“Okay, all together. Ready? Five, six, seven, eight—“

 

They get the rest of it learned in about half an hour, and then they’ve got the whole thing. Of course, it’s nowhere near ready, because Dean can be kind of a stickler when it comes to his choreo, but he feels a wash of relief. The routine’s finished, so if Naomi does something shitty like demanding to see it, they at least stand a chance.

 

“Wanna do the whole thing?”

Jo claps her hands together.

“Hell yeah. Let’s do it.”

 

 

The music starts, and Dean tips his hat up, letting a cocky smile slide into place.

 

_I don’t see how you can hate from outside the club_

_You can’t even get in_

_Leggo_

 

 

Left, bend, hit.

Right, out, close.

Back and sweep—

Turn, and seven, eight—

 

Jo moves into position, and Dean slides into place—she hits the floorwork, down, up, spin and out, and then Dean’s there to catch her—helping her flip up and they return back to their own steps, throwing in a little snide competition.

 

_Look at me now_

_Look at me now_

_I’m getting paper_

 

Then Sam takes downstage, Dean and Jo moving back. The music picks up, and it looks good—movements sharp and clean, hitting the right accents.

 

They take turns sitting it out, giving each other comments. Sam’s got a good eye for spacing, Jo’s a perfectionist when it comes to synchronization, but Dean’s the one who sees the moves. He can feel out the music and just paint the moves onto the rhythm, like an artist with a brush.

 

There’s a couple of dead counts at the end that Dean needs to figure out—either edit the music or come up with some extra stuff, but they’re pushing the time limit as it is—but as they head out, turning off the lights, doublechecking the hallway for any possible stragglers, Dean’s nearly giddy.

 

“Guys, that was fucking awesome.”

Jo smirks, knocking Sam with her shoulder.

“Now only if Dean could get the balls to ask Naomi if we can do it at the show.”

Dean scowls.

“Dude.”

 

Sam laughs, falling into step beside Dean.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“Hell no. You know she hates me.”

Jo had infamously yelled at Naomi for cutting her off in the parking lot, not realizing at the time who she was. So now, she runs for the hills any time they’re in the same room.

 

Dean fishes out his keys, sighing dramatically.

“If only we could sic Ellen on her.”

Jo pulls open the back door to the Impala, tossing in her bag before sliding onto the seat.

“No way. If they were in the same room, I feel like the world would implode from motherly disapproval.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“That lady? No way. Naomi doesn’t have kids.”

“You kidding? Have you seen the way she purses her lips?” Jo kicks back, stretching her arm out over the backseat. “No way that lady’s not a disapproving judgmental bitch when it comes to parenting.”

 

Sam pulls out his phone and zones out of the conversation, checking his email or reading nerdy law articles or whatever. Dean pulls out of the parking lot, glancing at Jo in the rearview.

“Home?”

“Actually—“

She leans forward.

“Can you drop me off downtown? On 5th.”

“Meeting up with Charlie?” Sam asks smugly, not looking up.

She flushes, poking the back of his head.

“Shut up.”

 

 

Dean pulls up to some rundown bar a little bit later, and Jo gives him a little salute.

“Practice again Saturday?”

“Can’t, we’re going to the show,” Dean says, grinning at her expression.

“Ughhh, right—700 Crew.” She scowls. “So jealous I couldn’t get tickets.”

Dean gives her a wink.

“We’ll send you pics, Harvelle.”

“You fuckin’ better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [Love Runs Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0OWj0CiM8WU) by OneRepublic  
> [Look At Me Now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_p9I5ipJFs0) by Chris Brown  
> Also [def the group routine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=go6vZM0kwwE)


	2. Chapter 2

“Motherfucker—“

Castiel slams the phone against the wall, snarling.

The boy opposite him freezes, and Castiel curses again, under his breath this time.

 

“Hey, uh. You okay?”

Castiel is really ready to snap at him, but something in the kid’s eyes seem so open and kind that Castiel’s insult dies in his throat.

“Um, yeah, I—“

Castiel squeezes the phone, wondering if he can break it into pieces.

“Well, actually. No.”

He sighs, kneading at his temple.

“My car broke down.”

“Oh.”

 

The kid glances towards the exit, where most people are heading, streaming through the lobby, chatting and laughing without so much as a glance backward towards the kid looking distraught at the grimy payphones, because who uses payphones anymore?

But he seems to make up his mind and walks up, hands in his pockets.

“You, uh, lose your phone? Or, um—“

“No, I—“ Castiel sighs. “It died.”

“And you’re here alone?”

Castiel squints a little, but there’s still nothing but cheap hold music from the other end of the line.

“Yeah,” he says cautiously, sizing the guy up. He’s fairly tall, but wiry. He probably doesn’t know Castiel is a dancer, and his hidden strength. He could take him.

“Well I’m here with my brother, and uh—he’s a mechanic. I’m sure he’d be happy to take a look at your car.”

Castiel blinks a little.

“Oh.”

 

The kid smiles sheepishly.

Castiel bites his lip, thinking it over. He’d been on hold for 15 minutes already, and if they ever did agree to come out, it’d be at least another hour until they got here. He could at least let the guy look at his car.

Damn. His mother is going to kill him.

 

“Yes, thank you,” he says. He hastily hangs up the phone, smiling. “I’d really appreciate that.”

 

“I’m Sam,” the kid says as they slouch out to the parking lot.

“Cas.”

“Alright. Cas.”

Sam straightens, peering over the heard of people milling in the parking lot.

“We’re over there, and you—“

“Oh, I’m over by the exit, this spot—“

They turn, and Castiel relaxes at the sight of the familiar silver BMW, even if it is giving him a migraine right now.

He accidentally groans out loud, and the kid—Sam—he laughs, glancing over.

 

“Sounds like it’s really giving you some trouble.”

“You have no idea,” Castiel mutters. He scratches the back of his neck, sighing. “I just wanted to go the show, and this happens.”

“Yeah? You a fan?”

“Are you kidding?” Castiel asks, raising an eyebrow. “700 Crew—they’re the best group out there right now.”

Sam laughs.

“Shit, I might regret introducing you to my brother. He’s their number one fan.”

“Well, he’s got good taste,” Castiel jokes. “Why, are you not?”

Sam shakes his head quickly.

“Oh no, no, they’re great.” He shifts a little, his great gangling height seeming clumsy in the dim neon light of the lot.

“Guess I just don’t like watching,” he says, a little hesitantly.

 

“Oh, are you a dancer?”

Sam brightens, straightening.

“Yeah. You?”

Castiel nods.

“I’m a student. Over at Alas.”

Sam doubletakes.

“Dude—No way! My brother too!”

Castiel blinks.

“Really?”

“Yeah, hell—maybe you know him? His name’s Dean.”

“Dean…” Castiel wracks his brain. “Doesn’t sound familiar, sorry.”

Sam’s face falls a little.

“Oh. Well. He’s in hip hop and you’re…?”

“Contemporary.”

Sam nods a little.

“Guess that makes sense. The different disciplines don’t really cross, do they?”

Castiel sighs.

“Yeah, not really. Kind of a shame.”

They’re silent for a moment.

“Wow,” Sam says. “What are the odds.”

 

They finally reach the end of the row, and Castiel points.

“That’s me.”

Sam whistles.

“Nice car.”

“It’s my mom’s,” Castiel says, grimacing. “And don’t judge me,” he adds hastily.

Sam raises his hands, a good-natured smile on his face.

“Hey, no judging.” Something in his smile falters a little. “You’re lucky.”

Castiel frowns. Sam quickly clears his throat, moving around to pop the hood.

“You take a look yet?”

“No, I—“

 

He opens the hood, and a large cloud of smoke billows out.

Castiel groans.

“Fuck.”

He covers his face in his hands.

“Mom’s going to kill me.”

 

Sam laughs good-naturedly.

“Nah, betcha Dean’ll will have it working within twenty minutes. He’s a genius.”

“Can’t wait to meet him,” Castiel says morosely, staring at the still-smoking engine. “A dancing mechanic.”

Sam snorts.

“Yeah, kind of an odd combo. Used to get a lot of shit for it.”

Castiel bristles. He’d had to defend himself for his choice of career path too.

“People are assholes,” he says.

“Amen.”

 

They wait for a little while, Castiel pacing nervously next to the car. Sam keeps checking his phone.

“He should be coming soon. Sounds like I dragged him away from the stage door, so he’ll probably be super pissed, but—“

“Sammy?”

 

Castiel turns, and stops dead.

 

The guy—Dean—stops too, freezing as he takes in the sight of Castiel.

They stare at each other, and finally Sam pipes up.

“This is the guy with the broken car, Dean.” He anxiously looks back and forth between them.

“You’d said you’d take a look, yeah?”

Dean finally tears his eyes away from Castiel’s.

“Um.”

He shuffles forward, one hand running distractedly through his hair.

“Yeah.”

He steps up next to him, audibly clearing his throat. Castiel watches him, trying not to smile.

“What’ve we got,” he says flatly.

Castiel crosses his arms, biting at his lip.

“I don’t know. I tried to start it up and it wouldn’t—and now there’s the smoke.”

“Hmm.”

Dean leans over, peering at the engine. He pokes at a couple things, frowning. Then he straightens and digs in his pocket, tossing a set of keys to his brother.

“Hey, Sammy, can you grab me my kit? “

“Yeah, okay.”

Sam’s tall form lopes off into the shadows, disappearing quickly into the dark of the lot.

 

Castiel shifts awkwardly.

“Hey. I’m Cas.”

Dean smiles slightly.

“Dean. Nice to finally meet you. Officially.”

“Yeah. You’re in my movement class, right?”

“You’re in that class?”

“Well, uh, I haven’t been. But I think I might start going again.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

He buries himself in the engine, fiddling with various tubes and gadgets that Castiel’s tried to learn countless times. Castiel watches, biting at the nail of his thumb. Dean disconnects something and steam billows out—and Castiel balks.

“What—“

He smacks at his hands.

“What the fuck—“

Dean waves him away.

“Relax.”

His hands move over the engine, quick and deft. A couple twists, a reattachment of a black cable—

“There. You see that?”

Castiel leans over to see where Dean’s pointing.

“Coolant pipe is leaking. That’s the reason for the smoke. You’ll wanna replace her, but other than that, thing’s nearly cherry.”

Dean leans back, wiping his hands.

“When Sam comes back I’ll patch it, but you’re going to have to get a new one.”

Castiel groans.

“My mom’s going to fucking kill me,” he says mopily.

Dean chuckles.

“Nah. Just normal wear and tear. You didn’t do it.”

“Try telling her that,” Castiel mutters.

He looks up to see Dean watching him strangely. Castiel clears his throat.

“Well, um.”

He looks down.

“Thanks.”

Dean shrugs.

“No problem.”

 

“Hey.”

 

Sam is back, and he drops a small black case at Dean’s side. He quickly gets to work, and Castiel watches, fascinated. Dean patches the leak and tightens a couple valves for good measure, before sitting back on his haunches, smiling slightly.

“Boom,” he says, a quiet pride on his face.

“Damn.”

Castiel slides next to him, peering at the intricate inner workings of the car.

“You’re good at that.”

“I like cars,” Dean says, putting away his tools.

“Far cry from dance,” Castiel says carefully.

 

Dean shrugs.

While his dad was in and out of bars, Dean had to learn a trade. Something to put food on the table so he wouldn’t become another young delinquent, product of the system from just trying to keep from starving.

 _There’s always gonna be cars, kid_ , Bobby told him the first time they met. _Good skill to learn._

And in their spare hours he and Sammy would hang out down by the corner, in the part of town the richer inhabitants of the city avoided like the plague.

Most kids their age were in gangs, or already dead.

They pulled up their hoodies and dealt with their shit with a boom box and a square of cardboard.

Andy’s dad was in jail. Victor’s older brother was shot and killed by a police officer on his way to his after school job. Ruby was a heroin baby, her mom in and out of rehab. Dean had nearly killed her when she invited Sam back to her place, with a look and a swivel of her hips Dean knew too well. The last boyfriend she had was rotting away in a hospital somewhere, his own blood cells killing him.

Then he met Bobby. And Ellen. And for the first time they had a home. Now when Dad disappeared, he could tinker out his rage in the garage, or skulk around the kitchen door of the Roadhouse, dodging halfhearted swipes from Ellen’s rag as she passed by, a loving but disapproving twist to her lips. She’d let him bus tables as Sammy would play cards under the counter with Jo, whispering and giggling as the adult feet passed by their secret hiding place. ‘The Batcave’ Dean always said. And then Sam and Jo would argue over who got to be Batman.

 

Dean smiles at the memory, until the voice next to him snaps him out of it.

“You sure it’s okay to drive?”

Shit. He was spacing again.

He straightens, smiling at Cas.

“Yeah, dude, you’re good. No worries.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Cas closes his mouth, and seems to be chewing his lip. Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him, and he has that feeling like he’s forgetting something.

 

“Well, I can give you my number,” Sam says. “Just in case you get stranded.”

Dean wants to punch himself in the face.

Fuck—of _course._ Phone number. He’s a goddamn idiot.

Cas’s eyes slide from Dean to Sam and he smiles, but it’s thin.

“Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“Or…I dunno.”

Sam claps his brother on the shoulder.

“Maybe Dean should give you his. He’ll actually be able to help if you break down again.”

And in that moment, Dean realizes he has the best little brother in the world.

 

Cas smiles, for real this time.

“Yeah, okay.” He glances at his pocket, his brow furrowing for a second. “Mine’s dead though, so I’ll put mine in yours, yeah?”

Dean nearly chokes. But he nods dumbly, and Cas takes his phone from his hand and quickly punches in the number, handing it back with a smile.

“Thanks again.”

“Yeah, man, no problem.”

They fall silent, and Dean doesn’t want to move. They’re just staring at each other.

“Dean.”

Dean starts. He totally forgot Sam’s still standing next to them.

“I don’t mean to be a dick, but I got class tomorrow at 8:30—“

“Oh, yeah—“

“We cool to leave?”

“Yeah—um, I’ll just—“

He turns back to Cas, suddenly at a loss.

But Cas rescues him. He pulls the keys from his pocket and heads to the driver’s side, nudging him with his shoulder as he passes.

 

“Thanks again. See you around?”

Dean smiles.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

Cas smiles too, then nods to Sam.

“Nice to meet you.”

“You too. Drive safe.”

 

They wave Cas out. Dean’s grip on his kit is embarrassingly sweaty.

He turns to see Sam watching him, a smug smirk on his face.

“What?” He growls.

Sam just shrugs, that infuriating look still on his face.

Dean turns on his heel.

“Let’s go home.”

“Hey, don’t be embarrassed. I can see why you like him.”

“Sammy, I swear to god—“

“You really have a type, don’t you?”

“Get in the damn car.”

 

x

 

Dean stares at the door in front of him. It towers before him, and he swallows.

“Go,” Jo whispers, shoving him forward. Dean lifts a hand, exhaling slowly. Then he knocks.

Jo pales.

“’Kay—bye.”

“Jo—“ Dean hisses—but too late, she’s already gone—hightailing it around the corner. He’s considering bolting after her, when a voice comes from inside the office.

“Come in,” she says crisply.

 

Dean bites his lip, steeling himself. Then he turns the knob, and walks in.

 

She doesn’t even look up from her computer. Dean hesitates by the door, wondering if he can sit.

 

“Um—Hi. Hello.”

“Name?”

“De—Dean. Winchester.”

When she doesn’t respond, Dean swallows, speaking up.

“I’m in the hiphop program.”

That gets him a glance up, her ice blue eyes peering at him over her glasses.

Dean fidgets.

She looks him up and down. Dean’s glad Sam convinced him to put on a nice shirt.

“Have a seat, Mr. Winchester,” she says eventually.

 

Dean hurriedly drops into the seat opposite her chair. She picks up some papers, going back to reading. Dean sits there awkwardly, waiting for her to speak.

Naomi suddenly stops and removes her glasses, eyeing him critically.

“Did you have a reason for coming here today, or are you just going to sit in silence?”

Dean flushes.

“I just, uh—I wanted to, um, ask a favor.”

“A favor,” she repeats. Dean clears his throat.

“Yeah, um—for my routine. I really wanted a third dancer and uh, none of the other kids could fit it in their schedules.”

He drops his eyes to his fingers, twisting them nervously together.

“And um—he’s my brother, see, so he’s totally cool, not a psycho or anything,” he says, laughing weakly.

Dean glances up. Fuck, does she ever blink?

“I mean—it would really mean a lot…see he’s my brother—“

Wait. He already said that already.

“Jo! Jo Harvelle—she’s our friend, and our parents—practically our parents are coming to watch, and I…”

He shrugs.

“So, is that okay? I mean, I just thought…”

He trails off, swallowing hard. Naomi is just staring at him, her expression unreadable.

 

Dean looks down at his hands. Well. This is a lost cause.

“I guess I’ll…”

He’s pushing back his chair, ready to escape when she abruptly sets down her papers, folding her hands.

“You’re Castiel’s friend,” she says crisply.

Dean blanks.

“Uh.”

He shrugs, utterly confused.

“Yeah?”

She doesn’t return it.

“I hear you helped him with some car trouble.”

Dean gawps at her. How the hell does she know that?

“Yeah,” he says eventually. “Just a quick fix, really. Nothing big.”

Jesus, Winchester, shut up.

She stares at him and Dean coughs, shifting uncomfortably under her gaze. Naomi scares the shit out of him, to be honest, and he knows this is a long shot, but—

“Alright,” she says.

 

Dean blinks.

“What?”

“That is acceptable.” She turns to pull a folder down from her shelf. “You will need to reserve a spot in the practice room, obviously, and I will have to have your brother sign some liability forms,” she says, sliding a couple pieces of paper to him across the desk.

Dean is numb, barely able to believe his luck.

“Yeah, of course. Wow. Thanks.”

“You are welcome,” she says coolly. “I’ll need those back before you start any formal practice.”

Dean nods quickly.

“Right, definitely.”

He shoves the papers in his bag, his heart leaping. 

“Now is that all?" Naomi asks. "I’m very busy.”

“Yeah, no—that’s it. Thanks. Thanks again.”

 

He calls his brother the minute he gets out into the hall, even though there’s a high probability he’s in class. He wheels, punching the air in victory when Sam picks up.

“Sammeh! Who’s the man?”

 

x

 

**Jo:**

>> _howd it go_

>> _did u die_

 

**Sent:**

<< _youre a little shit harvelle_

<< _i dont think im inclined to tell you_

 

**Jo :**

>> _deeeeeeeaaaaaan_

>> _sorry ok?_

>> _ill buy you coffee_

 

**Sent:**

<< _for a week_

 

**Jo Harvelle**

>> _FINE_

>> _JUST TELL ME_

 

**Sent:**

<< _WE’RE IN BABY_

 

x

 

Dean slides into the kitchen the next morning, whistling. They all had gone out for celebratory Thai food last night, and the more he thinks about it, the more psyched he gets. He has to turn in the paperwork and shit today, but hopefully they’ll be (legitimately) practicing by the end of the week.

He takes the stairs downstairs two at a time, running back up with the mail in his socked feet.

“Ugh,” he says, shutting the door behind him with his foot. “All we ever get is bills.”

He starts shaking his hips, singing absentmindedly as he flicks through the envelopes.

“Can you pay my biillllllls, can you pay my telephone billllls—“

University payment, electricity, and—shit, rent is due soon. He tries to remember how much he’s got in his bank account, and when payday is. Maybe he can ask Bobby for an advance.

“ _I don’t think you do, soooooo. You and me are through_ —”

Sam walks past him, nose in a book.

“Please stop.”

“Why, Sammy, thought you liked my singing.”

“If it could even be called that,” Sam says dryly.

He sets his book down on the counter.

“Oh, hey—can you pick me up after school today?”

Dean stops trying to rip open the envelope. He tips his head back and groans.

“Fuck, Sam. I totally forgot—I have extra rehearsal, and I agreed to pick up a shift for Bobby—inventory stuff—“

Sam shrugs.

“Well, hey. I could do that.”

Dean scoffs.

“No, Sam.”

“Why not? It’s just inventory. I do know how to count things—“

Dean shakes his head, tossing the rest of the envelopes on the counter.

“Look, we’re not having this argument again.”

Sam furrows his brow, squinting at him.

“Dean—“

“End of discussion,” Dean says smoothly, sliding out his phone. “I’ll call Charlie. She can probably give you a ride.”

 

He ignores Sam’s glare at his back, and he hears him give up eventually, going to raid the fridge. Dean taps on his screen, and he’s halfway through scrolling his list of contacts when he pauses.

 

_Cas Novak_

Oh shit. He never texted him.

 

Dean retreats back to his room, staring at his phone. He stands there for a good minute before he throws it on his bed, shaking his head.

_You’re being stupid. Just text him._

But first he should really pick up his clothes. Can’t have a dirty room, right?

His floor is spotless, and everything neatly hung up in his closet, for once, and Dean glances back at his bed.

He probably should vacuum too.

He’s halfway through his third load of laundry when he realizes he’s pretty much cleaned their entire apartment, and now he’s got no excuses left. Dean exhales. Goddammit.

 

**Draft:**

>> _hey!_

 

He debates for a minute. He deletes the exclamation point.

 

**Sent:**

>>h _ey_

>> _your car didn’t crap out on you again, did it?_

>> _lol_

 

Dean stares at the screen, not moving from the edge of his bed. He nearly drops his phone when it buzzes in reply.

 

**Cas**

<< _no :)_

<< _and being able to explain what happened really helped thanks_

 

**Sent:**

>> _well youre texting me_

>> _so guess your mom didnt kill you haha_

 

Dean whacks his head with his phone.

 

**Cas**

<< _haha no_

<< _btw hello dean_

<< _this is dean, right? ;)_

 

**Sent:**

>> _oh yeah lol_

>> _shouldve mentioned that oops_

 

**Cas**

<< _no worries_

<< _you going to movement today?_

 

Dean perks up.

 

**Sent:**

>> _yeah_

>> _you?_

 

**Cas**

<< _yup_

<< _see you there_

<< _:D_

 

Dean flops back on his bed, unable to stop the grin slowly spreading across his face.

 

x

 

“Point your goddamn feet!”

 

“Breathe!”

 

“And five, six, seven, eight, and out—”

 

“Up one—“

 

“Good, Castiel. Meg, arms a little higher, please.”

 

“Spread out!”

 

“One, two, three, _and_ four.”

 

 

“Okay, stop.”

 

 

 

 

 

Tessa waves a hand, pausing the music.

“Good! That was really good. Jo, don’t forget the look after the turn, Dean—good, but you need to relax—Max, _please_ don’t strain yourself. Alright. Any questions?”

 

One of the girls raises her hand and they go over the beginning eight counts again. When Tessa is satisfied, she nods to the rest of the class.

“Alright. Next part is a little bit of group work, so I’ll be putting you in positions…”

 

They all retreat to the side of the room, and Tessa starts forming a clump, placing them next to each other. Anna is the lightest one there, so she’s chosen for the lift, and Tessa explains in meticulous detail how the move works before even letting them attempt it. Dean is fidgeting anxiously. Lifts with a partner are one thing, but with six other people?

 

“Dean, come here.”

 

Dean nervously moves forward, and Tessa beckons him in, grabbing his arm and placing him near the middle of the group.

“Here, you’ll support Anna, here—remember to bend your knees—and then, um…Cas.”

Dean’s heart leaps, but he doesn’t turn around.

Tessa brings him over, and grabs Cas’s wrist, placing his hand on Dean’s back.

“Okay, you’ll be the anchor. Okay! Everyone, together—are you ready?”

There’s a murmured assent, and she claps her hands, nodding.

“Alright, so let’s go—lean back, two three four, then forward, run, six, seven, eight. Okay?”

 

Dean takes a deep breath. Anna looks back, catching his eye. She winks. Dean flushes.

 

The first time, he isn’t the one who fucks it up, thankfully. One of the girls in the front didn’t get a solid grip, and they couldn’t hold it as long as they were supposed to. Tessa resets them quickly, and Dean feels a little more confident this time. He takes his position again, but nearly jumps when he feels a hand on his back.

And Cas’s voice in his ear.

“Relax, jumpy. It’s just me.”

Dean swallows. Yeah. Like _that_ is going to help him relax.

 

 

Class ends a merciful twenty minutes later, and Dean flops down next to his stuff, leaning back against the wall. He grabs his foot, kneading at the arch as his other hand searches for his water, which he promptly chokes on when Cas sits down next to him.

“Hey.”

 

Dean swallows quickly, wiping his lips.

“Uh, hey.”

Cas smiles.

“Nice job today. If Tessa hadn’t told me, I would have had no idea you were in hip hop.”

Normally Dean would rankle at that kind of comment, but he strangely isn’t offended. Maybe because it feels like Cas is being genuinely honest, trying to pay him a compliment. Dean’s going to take it as one, regardless.

“Yeah. Me n’ Jo figured it be useful.”

He glances up. Jo’s talking to Tessa, and there’s another dark-haired girl next to her, going over a move or something, which means Jo’ll be occupied for a while. He glances back at Cas, smiling.

“But honestly—half of the time, I don’t really know what’s going on. So—apologies in advance for me being clueless, when it happens.”

Cas laughs.

“You should give yourself more credit.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, flexing his feet. “So. What was your favorite part of the show?” He asks, eyes twinkling.

Dean lights up.

“Dude. Everything.”

 

He launches into a detailed explanation of all of his favorite routines, probably revealing that he’s a way bigger fan than he pretends to be—but Cas is just as enthusiastic, asking him questions about the individual dancers and the moves he thought worked, the ones that didn’t—and they both agree that the show had been way too short.

“And I know I’ve said it like three times already, but thank you again—with the car. You saved my ass.”

Dean grins.

“Anytime, man.”

 

They fall into a brief silence, and out of the corner of his eye, Dean sees Jo finishing up with Tessa. Time to make a move, Winchester.

“So, you—“

He’s interrupted by a girl coming up behind Cas, draping herself over his shoulders.

“Hey, you.”

Cas glances back, a smile spreading across his face as he grabs her hands.

“Hey.”

The girl turns her dark eyes on Dean, looking him up and down.

“And hello to you, too,” she purrs. “Don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

Dean chances a look at Cas. He looks almost…amused?

Dean’s heart plummets. Of course.

 

Cas jostles her a little, unwrapping her arms from around his neck.

“Meg, this is Dean.”

“Dean,” she repeats slowly, drawing out the sound. “Well. Nice to put a face to the name,” she says slyly.

Dean misses the flush on Cas’s cheeks at that, distracted by the arrival of Jo.

He stands quickly, grabbing his stuff.

“Well, uh.”

He gives a weak little wave.

“See you around. And, um, nice to meet you.”

“Same, darling,” Meg drawls, turning back to Cas.

 

Dean forces himself to walk out of the classroom without looking back.

 

 

 

 

“Sooooooo.”

Meg leers at him.

“The infamous _Dean_.”

Castiel turns around so he doesn’t have to see her smug face, extending his right arm into second.

“Please don’t start.”

He can still feel her cocky grin, her gaze boring into his back. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the pattern.

Tendu, close, tendu, plié—

“I can see why you like him. Those eyes, and that ass—“

Castiel whips around, growling at her.

“ _Stop_ ,” he hisses. “He’s just a friend.”

Meg smirks.

“Mmmhmm. Really.”

Castiel huffs, pushing away from the barre and moving to the center of the room. Meg extends her leg, pulling it up and giving it a good stretch before falling back down.

“It’s just I haven’t seen you that blushy over someone in, well…ever.”

Castiel ignores her, sliding into a lunge.

She sniffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Well. If you’re not going to get on that, maybe I will.”

Castiel looks up sharply.

“I definitely could fuck with that,” she says airily, now critically examining her reflection in the mirror. “Scruffy blue collar isn’t usually my type, but I think I’d be willing to make an exception.”

Castiel stands, stalking over to her side. She turns to him, an eyebrow raised.

“Meg. Shut up.”

But she doesn’t. She smiles triumphantly.

“Knew you liked him.”

 

x

 

Today has not been a good day.

Well. What else is new.

First of all, Pam dragged his ass all across the floor and got super fucking nit picky with him, to the point where Dean was considering snapping back at her—something he’s never done before. Jo, luckily, had started to read his frustration and mercifully distracted him, which he was grateful for—but he’s still grinding his teeth as they start to pack up their stuff. Of course, there’s another reason, which Dean is definitely not going to think about if he can help it, and it _definitely_ doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that the person he has a not-quite crush on is most likely dating someone else. Even an hour and a half of him busting his ass hadn’t helped him work out his frustrations yet, and Dean tries to remind himself as they head out that’s he’s being completely ridiculous. It’s not like he had dibs. They just talked a few times, but that doesn’t mean shit.

He really needs to get a life.

 

Maybe he’ll call Bobby, ask him if he can do some overtime. Or maybe he’ll head downtown, shoot some hoops. Been a while since he’s done that. He misses the guys there.

He just knows he can’t go home right now. He had been a complete ass to Sam this morning, some part of him hoping for a fight.

 

So he’s definitely a little tetchy as they leave the classroom, Jo by his side. A couple of the dancers in the next class eye them haughtily before going inside. Dean’s bad mood turns even more sour, and he throws his bag down, digging through it violently to find his water bottle. He can hear the whispers, and gentleman that he is, he tries to tune it out. He jams his bottle under the spigot of the water fountain, waiting impatiently for it to fill as Jo talks into his ear, something about the last couple of counts, and whether they could possibly change the lift, because…

“—Don’t even know why they let them in.”

Dean cocks his head.

 

There’s a group of ballet dancers just a couple feet away, and his eyes shift to the girl nearest him, her pale blonde hair twisted up into a tight bun. She glances over, sees that Dean’s staring, and scoffs, going on right back to her friends. Dean’s blood boils.

“Studio time should be for people who are actually serious about dance. Not for charity cases.”

Jo has caught wind of what’s happening, and she tugs on his sleeve.

“Dean,” she hushes out. “Don’t—“

But Dean’s twisting the cap back on his water bottle, walking up behind her.

“Something you want to say?”

 

The girl blinks, looking a little taken aback. Some of the other girls are shifting nervously, darting glances between the two of them. Dean’s not exactly the scariest-looking guy, but these girls look like they’ve never been on the wrong side of the tracks their entire life.

She narrows her eyes.

“I don’t believe I was speaking to you.”

“Yeah, but I think you were speaking _about_ me,” Dean shoots back. “So I’d really like to hear it for myself.”

His temper is flaring up again, and he really should just let it go—especially in Alas, because if he starts pulling shit, he could risk getting reprimanded, or suspended—or hell, even kicked out—but he’s never really had a good handle on his anger, especially today, and especially, when it’s snotty-ass people looking down their nose at him. He’s had to defend himself too many damn times, and he’s sick of it.

 

The girl doesn’t seem fazed. She turns, looking at him coolly.

“I really don’t have to answer to the likes of _you_ ,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain.

“Why don’t you back the fuck up?”

 

Dean had opened his mouth to retort—but the new voice cuts through the tension, and he turns his head, blinking in shock. Cas is standing there, like he appeared out of nowhere—glaring at the girl with an extremely pissed-off expression. Dean’s never even seen him like this before. It’s stupidly hot.

“Excuse me?” The girl says. She looks just as surprised.

“What the hell is your problem, Lilith?” Cas continues, stepping in between them. “What did he ever do to you?”

“What the fuck, Castiel?” Lilith looks him up and down, her eyes flicking briefly to Dean and Jo. “Since when do you hang out with the school trash?”

“That’s none of your business,” Cas answers smoothly.

“He’s in _hip hop_.”

“He also got into this school on merit,” he says. “I seem to remember _your_ father had to make a very generous donation before Naomi even considered letting you in.”

Behind him, Dean hears Jo make a soft _ooh_ sound. The rest of the girls look scandalized.

Lilith’s face colors, and she quickly stalks off, her clique following her without another word. Cas watches them go, his expression only softening once the door has shut behind them. He turns to Dean, a sudden sheepish look on his face.

“Holy shit, Cas.”

 

Dean looks at him in awe, a slow smile spreading across his face.

“What was that for?”

Cas shifts back on his heels, sticking his hands in his pockets.

“It’s nothing. I just—I’ve never liked her,” he says, throwing a dirty look at the window of the studio. “She treats everyone like crap. She deserves to get knocked down a few pegs.”

Jo comes up next to him, crossing her arms.

“Dude. That was badass.”

It’s Cas’s turn to go pink.

“I’m sure it wasn’t.”

 

 

There are still a couple people staring obnoxiously, so Cas nods his head, beckoning them down the hall.

“Come on.”

 

They push their way through the crowd into the main hall, Dean falling into step beside him.

“You got class now?”

“Yeah, not for another half hour, though.”

He tucks his hands in his pockets, fighting off the slight chill. Jo drifts off to the side, pulling out her phone to call Ellen. She sits down on the steps, chewing at her lip.

 

Dean watches Cas out of the corner of his eye. He still doesn’t know why he defended him. If Sam had pulled that kind of shit, he’d probably have been irritated, more than anything, but for some reason, he’s…grateful.

 

Dean leans back against the stair railing, glancing up.

“So, um…how’d you know I got in on merit?”

 

Cas looks up.

“What?”

Dean shrugs, awkwardly toeing at the ground in front of him.

“I’m on scholarship here.”

When Cas doesn’t say anything, Dean chances another look at his face. Cas is staring at him in awe.

“Dean _, really_? That’s amazing—“

Dean tries to brush it off, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck.

“No, it’s not, really—“

“Are you kidding? There’s only about five of those given out every year—“ Cas cuts off, seemingly speechless.

Dean coughs, really wishing he would stop looking at him like that. Because if he doesn’t, he’s not really sure what he’ll do. Probably something stupid. Like ask him out.

“Well, I mean—figured it was obvious,” he says quickly. “All my crap's secondhand, I order off the dollar menu.” He shrugs. “You do the math.”

 

Castiel shakes his head. He never would have guessed—the hip hop department is still relatively new—Naomi had only expanded the curriculum in recent years after some pressure from the rest of the staff—but it is so rare for kids to get into Alas without a hefty amount of money to pave the way. He’s surprised Naomi extended the scholarships to anything outside ballet.

“Besides.” Dean laughs. “You think I could ever afford his place?” He asks, gesturing at the building behind them. “Working at a garage?”

Castiel snorts.

“Not like my salary is exactly big, either.”

 

Then he freezes. Crap.

 

Dean straightens, tipping his hat up.

“Yeah? You taking out loans or something? That’ll be a bitch later…believe me I know…Sammy’s school costs ain’t cheap.”

The lie’s easy. Castiel’s had to tell it before.

“Yeah, uh…loans.”

He can just hear the gossip now. Castiel, momma’s boy, who gets to go to school for free.

 

But Dean is smiling.

“Welll. Cheers to being in debt.”

Castiel returns the smile, and for a moment, neither of them say anything. They just look at it each other, neither really sure what to say. Jo rescues them, ending her call and standing, tugging at Dean’s sleeve.

“Mom can’t get a minute, do you think you can drop me off?”

Dean glances over.

“Oh, yeah—“

“Um, I should probably get to class—“

 

Cas gives them both a little wave, heading back up the steps. Dean wistfully watches him go.

“Well.”

Dean turns. Jo’s smirking again, and she nudges him with her hip.

“That was painful to watch.”

He scowls, turning away from her.

“Careful, or I’ll leave you on the side of the highway.”

 

 

As he drives to Jo’s, he taps his fingers on the wheel, along to the beat of the Allman Brothers, thinking.

 

Dean can’t help replaying the conversation, remembering the look of awe on Cas’s face. He doesn’t understand it. He doesn’t get that kind of respect from people at Alas. Then again, nobody really ever talked to him in the first place—so.

It’s really not that impressive, getting a scholarship. Not like he’s planning on doing anything with it anyway.

 

Everyone here has a frikkin’ ulterior motive. Okay, whatever—a goal. Everyone in contemporary is trying to make it in some capacity—a company, Broadway, whatever. Jo is dead set on becoming a backup dancer for Nicki Minaj—Dean doesn’t know exactly how she’s going to get that dream realized—but she knows what she wants, so good for her. Charlie wants to start her own ballet school, one that differs from the traditional style. She explained it once, Dean can’t really remember the details—but Dean?

Dean is just…here.

 

Yes, he knows Sam would whine and bitch about him actually trying to make something of himself—but Dean knows he’s not fooling anyone. It’s just temporary—hell, it’s basically a hobby. He’ll complete the program and he’ll mourn it when it’s gone (not out loud, more like he’ll spend a week locked up in his room with his laptop and some Jack), and then he’ll go back to Bobby’s. Dean knows that’s always been his future, and he’s fine with it.

 

There are a lot worse places to end up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Dean likes Destiny's Child, fight me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [Bad Company](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ww5GXbk58R0) by Bad Company  
> [Bailando](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NUsoVlDFqZg) by Enrique Iglesias  
> [Represent Cuba](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZBoqCDSrWi8) by Orishas feat. Heather Headley

“So, when are you going to ask him out?”

 

Dean looks up distractedly from his phone.

“What?”

Charlie rolls her eyes.

“When are you going to ask him out? Because this lovestruck puppy thing is cute and all, but it’s getting kind of sickening.”

Dean blushes, shoving his phone in his pocket.

“Shut up.”

“Why don’t you invite him tonight? To come out with us?”

 

Dean grabs his snapback, briefly running a hand through his hair before slipping it on.

“Yeah, right. That’s like a frikkin’ double date, Charlie.”

She knocks him with her hip.

“That’s the idea, Winchester.”

She spins away from him, adopting a lilting tune to her voice.

“Oh, what a merry gay crew we shall beeeee—“

“Not gay, Charlie.”

She snorts.

“Yeah, I know you like the ladies just as much as I do. That’s why we’re an unstoppable best friend duo.”

Dean grins.

“Damn right.”

 

But he slides out his phone later, and shoots off a quick text. Then he forces himself to put his phone away, promising he won’t look at it for the next ten minutes.

Which of course means he checks his notifications compulsively, until—

 

**Sent:**

>> _hey me n charlie and jo are going out for drinks tonight_

_> >wanna come?_

_> >ill make sure they dont get too gross haha_

 

**Cas:**

_< <shit cant tonight i got work_

_< <raincheck?_

 

Dean swallows, his heart dropping a little.

 

**Sent:**

>> _yeah dude. holding you to it_

 

He forces himself to actually put his phone away this time, but he can’t help the sinking feeling in his stomach.

 

Charlie raises an eyebrow at his suddenly less-than-stellar mood, but manages to work him out of it by the time they meet up with Jo.

She huffs, slinging her bag into the backseat and crashing in after it. Dean scowls.

“Hey, careful with the leather, Blondie.”

She makes a face, but buckles in slightly less like a bull in a china shop.

“So fuckin’ done with rehearsals,” she groans. “This show can’t come fast enough.”

“Amen,” Charlie says, grabbing the iPod jack.

“Dude—“

“We’re trying to pump up, Winchester. You can listen to your 40 year old music literally any other time.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but allows it—he’d be lying if he said he didn’t kind of like Charlie’s playlists—but he also likes playing the part of grump.

 

“So where to? Roadhouse?”

From the backseat, Jo groans.

“Dude, no. I’m there practically all the time.”

“You mean we can’t get free shots?”

She gives him a look.

“From my mom, are you insane?”

Dean nods.

“Yeah, you got a point.”

Charlie pipes up.

“What about that place on fifth, I’ve been wanting to check it out.”

Dean frowns.

“Dude, it’s a total dive. You wanna go there?”

“Yeah, why not?” She sits up, grinning. “I’m always down for some character. And besides. It’s close enough that we can walk home when we get insanely drunk.”

“If you call a 30 minute walk close.”

Jo kicks him.

 

Dean rolls his eyes, but pulls into the left lane, heading towards fifth.

“Alright. Sketchy ass dive bar it is.”

 

It’s not too crowded, and they manage to snag a table. According to the posters on the grimy walls, they have karaoke and live music, neither of which are happening tonight, unfortunately. But definitely an incentive to come back.

Jo scans the bar, and suddenly her eyes light up. She nudges Charlie, and whispers something in her ear. They both crack identical grins, turning towards Dean.

“Dean,” Jo says sweetly. “Why don’t you get us some drinks?”

He scoffs.

“Fuck you, get your own.”

“Deeeean,” Jo pouts, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder. Dean sighs. Dammit. He can never refuse when Jo pouts. And she knows it too. She’s been using that trick against him since they were four years old.

Dean eyes the mess around the bar, internally groaning.

“You fuckin’ owe me.”

“Fine.”

 

She slaps some money in his hand.

“First round’s on me,” she says, winking.

Dean takes it, eyeing her warily. Jo was as tightfisted as they come, so this is unexpected. But hey, he’s not going to question it.

He shoves through the crowd, worming his way up to the bar, running through his mental checklist.

IPA for Jo and two fingers of whiskey, and for Charlie, some fruity thing he can’t remember the name of—fuck, is there a menu around here?

He finds one and drags it towards him, waiting impatiently for the bartender to make his rounds. But the girl next to him is cute enough, and she keeps shooting him looks. Dean catches her eye, and winks. She giggles, batting her eyelashes.

Dean’s biting his lip, seriously considering buying her a drink, when the bartender turns around.

“Cas?” He blurts out.

 

Cas seems dumbstruck too. But he quickly recovers, slinking up to him, flipping a rag over his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” Dean says back.

 

They just stare at each other for a moment, then Cas smiles slightly.

“What can I get you?”

Dean fumbles, remembering the girls behind him at the table.

“Oh, um—“

He orders, and peers at the taps behind the bar.

“And amber ale. Any brand’s fine.”

“You got it.”

Cas pushes back from the bar, busying himself at the tap.

Dean fiddles with the twenty in his hand, wondering how the hell his luck turned out like this.

 

Cas comes back, sliding him his beer.

“On the house,” he says, smiling.

Dean shakes his head.

“C’mon, dude, you don’t have to do that—“

“You fixed my car for free,” Cas says, laughing. “It’s the least I can do.”

“Yeah," Dean says. "Oh—do you know how Naomi knows about that?”

Cas pauses. Dean carries on, oblivious.

“She mentioned it when I was meeting with her. I had no idea she was so...involved."

Cas shrugs, his voice nonchalant.

"Well. News always travels fast at Alas.”

Dean nods.

“Guess so.”

 

They lapse back into silence, and Dean can’t think of a single thing to say. Cas raises an eyebrow.

“Go back to friends. You’re being rude,” he says slyly.

Dean laughs.

“Okay. But I’ll be back,” he says, giving him a mock serious look.

Cas smiles.

“I’m looking forward to it.”

 

Dean turns, completely oblivious to the now offended looking girl next to him and walks back to Charlie and Jo, his head in the clouds.

They exchange a knowing look. Dean doesn’t notice.

 

He also doesn’t mind when they send him to get the drinks every round, and Cas always tries to give Dean his for free. Dean finally wears him down though, by the fourth beer, slapping down a bill and walking away before he has a chance to protest.

The bar’s emptying out by this point, everyone paired up, couples waiting to go home, making those eyes at each other. Dean’s feeling wonderfully fuzzy. Charlie pillows her head on her arms, eyes starting to droop. Jo smiles down lazily at her, twisting a lock of her red hair between her fingers. It’s so sickeningly cute that Dean decides he should be…not here.

 

So he finds himself at a stool at the bar, clumsily propping up his elbows on the lacquered wood.

Cas comes wandering over, smiling.

“Evenin’ barkeep,” Dean says, straightening slightly. “I think a water will do this time.”

Cas laughs.

“I think that’s wise.”

He goes to get him a glass, and Dean gulps it down greedily, too drunk to care about looking attractive at this point.

Cas laughs, smiling.

“You abandoned your friends?”

“I decided I should be elsewhere right now,” Dean says, rolling his eyes.

Cas glances over at the girls at the table, his eyebrow raising slightly. Dean doesn’t try to turn around. That would involve too much movement.

“Ah. I believe you’re right.”

 

Cas starts cleaning glasses with a rag. It’s methodical, hypnotic, and Dean feels his eyelids starting to droop.

“Hey.”

 

He feels a tap on his shoulder, and he reluctantly jerks up, blinking heavily.

“No sleeping at my bar,” Cas says wryly.

“Sorry, dude.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face.

“I’m burnt out. Rehearsal freakin’ fried my brain.”

Cas snorts.

“Same.”

Dean raises an eyebrow.

“But you’re here? You picked up a shift after all that?”

Cas shrugs. Dean blows out a breath, propping his hand on his chin.

“Wow. I blocked myself off at the garage for anything during hell week. You’re fuckin’ impressive dude.”

Cas’s lips curl into a smile.

“Thanks.”

Dean feels a dumb little swoop in his stomach, and he grins back, smiling at him stupidly.

This whole thing is kinda new to him. He’s only been out for about a year, and a lifetime growing up flirting with women is what he’s used to. What he’s good at. This is uncharted territory. First guy who actually showed interest in reciprocating his flirting, Dean got all flustered and nearly fell over a table. And Cas just leaves him speechless 99% of the time.

 

Cas sets down the glass, eyeing Charlie and Jo.

“Where you three planning to go after this?” He eyes him, voice suddenly crisp. You’re not driving are you?”

Dean waves a hand.

“No, no, ‘course not.”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Jo’s mom’s house ain’t too far.”

Cas relaxes slightly.

“Okay. Good.”

 

But Dean groans, sinking his forehead onto his arms.

“If you call a thirty minute walk not far. Ugh.”

He huffs out a breath.

“And I’m nowhere near that stage of drunk where it’s still fun.”

Cas wipes his hands carefully.

“My shift ends in ten minutes.”

Dean snaps his head up.

“I can drive you home,” he says, tilting his head. “Your car’s here?”

Dean sits up, answering shakily.

“Um. Yeah. Shit, yeah.”

Cas smiles slightly.

“Well, if you don’t mind. Stone cold sober, unfortunately.” He glances back over to the two girls at the table. “I’ll drop them off, and then…”

“I got a couch you can sleep on,” Dean blurts.

 

Cas smiles.

“Yeah?

Dean nods hastily.

"Yeah."

"Well, okay then."

Cas straightens.

“Gimme a sec.”

 

Dean goes to take a piss before they leave, nudging Charlie back into consciousness and loading them into the backseat. He slides into the passenger seat, handing over the keys to Cas.

He never lets anyone drive his baby if he can help it, only very rarely Sammy and Bobby, obviously—so why the hell is he doing this again?

Right. Because he’s an idiot with a crush. Right.

 

“Thanks, man,” he mumbles. “Seriously.”

Cas may have said something back, but Dean’s already out of it, his exhaustion finally getting to him.

 

He wakes up groggily to Cas nudging his shoulder.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Dean looks around blearily. Charlie and Jo are gone.

“Much as the idea of sleeping in your car is appealing, can you tell me where you live?”

“Oh,” Dean says. “Right.”

 

He gives Cas directions, yawning, trying to sober up a little. Luckily they’re not too far from Ellen’s, and they finally slide into his parking spot.

Cas hands him the keys back and Dean lets them in, careful not to wake Sammy. He had been bitched out too many times about not keeping his one-night stands quiet and unannounced.

Dean’s blood heats up at that image, of messily falling through the door, barely able to walk ‘cause they can’t stop kissing each other for two seconds, and—

“Dean?”

Dean snaps out of it, flushing red. No, no, definitely not the time.

 

Cas drops his bag on the floor by the door.

“Bathroom?” He asks quietly.

“Yeah, round the corner.”

Dean discretely readjusts his pants and goes to get him a pillow. He manages to dig up a spare blanket as well, then stands back awkwardly, nervously messing up his hair.

“Well, um. I’m down the hall if you need anything. Just wake me or Sammy up.”

Cas smiles tiredly.

“Thanks. I’m ready to crash, too.”

Dean nods, flipping off the switch.

“Well,” he says, smiling awkwardly. “Night, Cas.”

“Good night, Dean.” He turns over and buries himself under the pillow.

Dean shambles down the hall and falls into his bed, not bothering to change. He’s instantly asleep, a stupid grin on his face.

 

x

 

Dean wakes up groggily, flopping for his alarm.

He manages to find his phone and finally silences the damned thing, dropping his head back to his pillow and closing his eyes. He blindly gropes for the water bottle Drunk Dean had so kindly left out for Sober Dean—snatching it from his bedside table and chugging the whole thing in one go.

He tosses the empty bottle away for later, closing his eyes again. He manages to doze for a few minutes, until his bladder demands its turn.

 

Somewhere between the toilet and his room, Dean remembers what happened last night.

 

Cas. Cas is on his frikkin’ couch.

 

He nearly trips on his own feet as he bolts for the living room—at the last second remembering to pull on a shirt—and he rounds the corner to see—

 

His brother.

His stupid brother, standing at the stove, poking at some eggs with a spatula.

“Finally. You’re awake.”

Sam turns.

“Thought I was going to have to eat these all by myself.”

“Um, where’s—uh…”

Dean clears his throat, trying to look nonchalant.

“Where’s Cas?”

 

Sam’s expression shifts, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“New low, Dean. Usually you’re supposed to let them sleep _in_ your bed after you hook up—“

“DUDE.”

“But hey, if that’s your style,” he says airily, turning off the heat.

“WE DID NOT SLEEP TOGETHER.”

Sam laughs, a big guffawing laugh, like this is the funniest thing that’s ever happened to him. Which it so is _not_.

“I know, I know. He told me what happened. And said he had to run. Breakfast with his mom or something,” he says, now tipping some bacon onto a second plate. The sight of it sends Dean’s mouth watering.

Sam holds out the plate, a peace offering.

“You want some?”

Dean glares at him for a minute, then grabs it.

“Yeah,” he grumbles. “Thanks.”

 

He puts the plate on the counter, his mood souring. Guess he never said anything about breakfast. He just kind of assumed…

 

“He could have told you himself, Dean, if you ever got up before 12,” Sam says snottily.

“Shut up.”

 

Dean sits at their rickety kitchen table, rubbing his face.

“Ohhhh. Remind me never to go shot for shot with Jo again.”

“Seem to recall you saying that last week too,” Sam says, pouring coffee into his travel mug.

Unable to think of a witty reply, Dean flips him off.

 

Sam sticks a piece of toast in his mouth.

“Okay, gotta run.”

“Dude, what—“

“I made you breakfast out of the goodness of my heart. The least you can do is wash the dishes.”

“Rehearsal slot’s at 4:15,” Dean yells as Sam slips out the door.

“Yeah, okay!”

“DON’T BE LATE!”

 

x

 

**Sent:**

>> _hey_

_> >you make it home alright?_

 

**Cas:**

<< _yeah!_

<< _sorry i had early breakfast with my mom_

<< _thanks again for letting me couch surf_

 

**Sent:**

>> _no problem_

>> _see you at rehearsal?_

 

**Cas:**

<< _definitely._

 

Dean smiles.

 

**Sent:**

>> _good :)_

 

x

 

Dean loiters outside the theatre for almost 15 minutes. The cold finally gets to him, and he grumbles, turning to go into the theatre.

 

He swears loudly, smacking the seat with his hand.

Heads immediately snap towards him, and he flushes, swallowing the rest of his stream of curses. He ignores the stabbing pains in his toe and continues to hobble up the aisle.

So fuckin’ dark in here, seriously, how is anyone supposed to find their damn seat—

“Dean!”

 

Charlie is gesturing at him, her face lit up with the ghostly glow from the stage lights. Dean slides in beside her, sinking low into the velvet cushion.

“Thought I’d never find you,” he mumbles under his breath, massaging his foot. Charlie clucks her tongue softly, seizing his ankle. He frowns, but she digs a knuckle into his arch and he almost gasps, at the last second sucking in his breath.

“See, I do learn stuff in ballet class,” she says smugly. Dean doesn’t answer. He almost closes his eyes, smiling stupidly and leaning back against the hard metal back of the auditorium chair. His feet have been killing him all day, and Charlie is his best friend for a reason, goddamn. He would kiss her if he could will his muscles to work him into an upright position. Or if Charlie actually liked people of the male persuasion kissing her. Whatever. Right now all he can do is sigh and maybe grab a quick nap before it’s his turn to take the stage.

Tech rehearsals are always a shitshow. Everyone running around half-dressed, freaking out about last minute choreo changes, the professors sweating in the front row. Because this is the rehearsal where Naomi Alas sits in the front row, scratching notes with her infamous blue pen. Most people waited around her with bated breath, ready to see what she has to write about their routine.

A few words jotted down—fine. An entire paragraph—prepare for disaster. Nothing whatsoever—

God help you.

 

Dean can’t bring himself to care. He’s never cared for the strict regimen and tightassery that Naomi brings to rehearsals, and to be honest, she doesn’t look too closely at the hip-hop kids anyway. Too focused on her precious ballet students. Which is why Charlie is currently cutting off all the circulation in his foot.

“Dude—“ he finally hisses, when Charlie’s nails dig into his heel.

She’s not paying attention, staring wide-eyed at the teacher’s table where Naomi is sitting, watching the dancers through narrowed eyes.

Professor Crowley is sitting next to her, his lips thin and his face pale. Dean has been half-watching the routine on stage, but even with his limited knowledge, he knows it’s a goner.

Crowley bows his head.

“Miss Alas,” he says, an oily tone to his voice. “I’m sure we can work something out—“

“Next,” Naomi says.

Crowley stops abruptly.

“Ma’am—“

“Next,” she says again, sounding almost bored.

Crowley stands abruptly, gathering up his files and stalking off in a huff. Dean has to suppress a laugh.

 

“Oh god.”

Dean glances over. Charlie’s knuckles are white.

“Shit. I’m up in a few. You think she’ll like it? I mean, god, Tessa only changed my partner last week and I really don’t know if he’s up to it, and if I get blamed for it—“

She’s starting to hyperventilate, and Dean grabs her hands.

“Hey. Bradbury. Stop freaking out.”

He squeezes gently.

“You’re great,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna be fine.”

She smiles hesitantly, biting her lip.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” Dean whispers.

She snorts, but keeps a hold of his hand, snuggling up beside him. Dean rolls his eyes, but scoots in closer, smiling absently.

 

He kind of zones out for some of the next numbers, another jazz, some random-ass tap number, and then finally—

“Novak and Masters.”

Dean tenses immediately, and of course Charlie glances at him, her eyes bright and curious. Dean bites the inside of his cheek, wanting to look away, but—

Cas slinks onstage, and Dean wants to murder whoever designed that outfit.

 

They take their positions, stepping to center stage, the lights dimming.

Cas stands stock still, and Meg slings an arm over his shoulder. He turns his face towards hers, and they share a secret smile.

 

The music starts, soft piano chords, jazzy and slow. The lights dim along with it, settling to a gentle blue simmer.

 

_Company always on the run_

_Destiny is a rising sun_

 

Cas lifts a hand, slowly brushing her cheek. She looks up at him through her lashes, eyes glinting, their hands slowly slipping together.

 

_I was born_

_Six gun in my hand_

 

They step back, one, two, three. Cas bends and Meg follows, sliding her hands down his arm, their faces inches apart. They spin out of it, moving across the stage, fluid and graceful, every step perfectly in sync.

Dean realizes his hand is digging into the armrest.

 

_Behind a gun_

_I make my final stand_

 

They break, a couple counts in unison, then Meg spins eloquently out of her turn, falling into Cas’s arms, throwing her head back. Something in those blue eyes glints as he sweeps a hand down the curve of her thigh, gripping her tight and pushing her up and over his head, hoisting her up into a perfect lift.

_That’s why they call me_

 

They’re frozen for a minute underneath the lights. He can almost hear the crowd holding its breath.

 

_Bad company_

_I can’t deny_

 

They drop out of it, and she whirls away from him, her fingers beckoning. He chases after her, their hands meeting, fingers curling together, soft and sensual. Dean sneaks a look to see Naomi watching, an uncharacteristic smile on her face.

 

_Bad company_

_Til the day I die_

 

He spins her in and she curls into his arms, her eyes closing briefly as he drops his hands to her hips, slowly grinding together. His hand grips her hair in a way that can’t be anything but practiced, and she tips her head back in a sigh, those blue eyes hard and hot, fixed on hers.

 

Dean bolts upright. Charlie blinks up at him, confused.

“Backstage,” he grunts, yanking his bag up. He stalks up back the aisle, trying to ignore the music behind him.

 

_Six gun sound_

_Is our claim to fame_

 

And even though it’s bad form, Dean slams the door behind him.

 

x

 

Castiel sits back in his chair propping up his feet, taking care to avoid any buttons.

“You sure you’re cool to be here?”

Castiel runs a hand through his hair, nodding.

“Yeah, I’m cleared. They’re not running any of my dances this afternoon.”

He’d been lucky to get all of his in the morning block before lunch, which he’s sure Naomi had something to do with, even if she wouldn’t admit it. So he’s golden for the rest of the day, which gives him some much needed time to escape up to the booth. Ash had spent most of the morning alone up here, so he appreciates the company.

“Dragon lady seems more on edge than usual.”

“Mmm.”

Castiel bites his lip. He tries not to bash on Naomi too much, even though that’s most students’ favorite topic.

 

Tech rehearsal always crawled by achingly slow, with Naomi insisting on supervising every lighting decision on the stage for practically every number. He says ‘practically’, because she while she might pretend to pay attention the dances that aren’t ballet, the truth is, she doesn’t really care.

Castiel sighs, leaning back. He likes it up here, because there’s no dancers. He loves the stage environment and the people, but sometimes it’s just too much—too many strong personalities and it gets overwhelming real fast. Ash is chill though. And he likes to share.

Castiel takes another deep pull, then hands him back the joint.

“Okay, I’m good.” He digs in his bag, searching for his water bottle. “Supposed to practice after this, so.”

Ash plops it back in between his lips, pushing up a couple dials.

“But doesn’t it like…enhance the creative flow?”

He turns a knob and the stage is suddenly bathed in a soft pink. Castiel seems some of the ballet kids onstage nod in approval.

“Know it does for me,” Ash says nonchalantly.

Castiel snorts, draining the rest of his water.

 

 

They chill for a while, Naomi buzzing in comments occasionally.

Ash dutifully obeys. He watches lazily, a tap number going by, a contemporary, and then—

“Winchesters and Harvelle.”

Castiel looks up.

 

A tall kid with straggly hair lopes onstage—Sam, he realizes. He looks completely different in his dance clothes. That morning in Dean’s apartment, he’d woken up to a kid with an Ivy League button up and a backpack, so this guy onstage, looking like his brother in the saggy jeans and hoodie, is unrecognizable.

He’s followed by the blonde Castiel’s seen around a couple times, Jo, right, that’s her name—and then, there.

Dean, shucking off his jacket. He’s saying something to the dancers behind him, and they both nod, waiting for the music. Ash shifts over to the stereo, where it’s all cued up and ready to go. Castiel straightens, looking down at the stage with interest.

 

Most people don’t do tech full out, but then again, Dean isn’t most people.

 

 

Castiel stands, coming forward to look over Ash’s shoulder. He usually just sits back and lets Ash do his thing, but the techie does appreciate his input, occasionally.

“I think…if you light the left side here, it’ll really improve it.”

Ash nods, then wires in the mic.

“Dean, how’s that looking?”

 

Onstage, Castiel sees him give a thumbs up.

“Awesome, dude,” Dean calls up. “Keep up the good work.”

 

Castiel reaches over, and presses the button too.

“Nice job.”

 

He sees Dean spasm briefly, but when he walks offstage with Jo and Sam, he goes with an unmistakable strut.

 

Ash raises an eyebrow.

“You tappin’ that?”

Cas slings his bag over his shoulder, heading for the door.

“Not yet.”

 

x

 

 

He scratches absently at his thigh, stopping briefly at the water fountain to rinse out his dry mouth.

“Castiel.”

He straightens abruptly. Fuck.

Naomi comes striding down the hall, her lips tightened into a thin line. Castiel awkwardly wipes his mouth, averting his eyes.

“May I speak with you?”

He shrugs, and Naomi glances around, before indicating the empty classroom beside them. Castiel frowns, following her through the door.

She shuts it quickly and turns around, her face glowing.

“We’ve been chosen for the final exhibition. For the National Dance Company.”

Castiel’s jaw drops.

 

She clasps her hands, barely able to contain her excitement.

“They contacted me earlier this year and said they’d consider it, but now it’s official, they’re coming, I just got the call, and Cas—“

She sweeps him into her arms, and Castiel is stiff, in shock. She never calls him Cas.

She lets him go, hands on his shoulders.

 

“Your duet with Meg is exceptional,” she breathes. “We can submit it, for consideration, and, oh Castiel—“ She takes a deep breath, composing herself. “You could get hired. You’d have a spot there.”

Castiel swallows, barely able to believe it. It’s always been a kind of dream of his, but they’re finally coming to Alas, and shit—

“I know they’ve looked down on our establishment in the past,” Naomi says, now fixing his shirt, compulsively smoothing out every wrinkle. “But this is our chance.”

She fixes him with that ice blue stare.

“So I will encourage you to take this seriously.”

Castiel rankles a little, shifting his bag higher on his shoulder. Of course he was going to. Did she have no confidence in him at all? It’s only what he’s been fantasizing about since he was eleven years old. A position at the National Company, touring the country, working with famous choreographers, shows all over the globe…

His heart pounds just thinking about the possibility. Him, wearing the company’s famous blue uniform, glossing the pages of Dance Magazine.

 

Naomi steps back, a critical eye ranging over his appearance.

“This is the realization of a dream we’ve had for a long time. I wish you would try to look the part.”

Castiel prickles, his temper flaring. He slouches back, just because he knows she hates it when he slouches.

“Mom, I’m on board. You know I’ll do whatever it takes.”

She purses her lips, then reaches up, pinching Castiel’s fringe between her fingers, her eyes hard. He glares at her.

“You should dye your hair back,” she says crisply. “It will be looked down upon.”

Castiel drops his eyes to the floor, blowing out a breath.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“Castiel.”

 

He looks up. Naomi is stiff, but she seems to be struggling with herself, her fingers twitching.

“I’ll allow it. For this show.”

Castiel clenches a fist. This is exactly why he moved out. So he didn’t have to be ‘allowed’ to do anything anymore.

“But if you make it to the finals, you will go out on that stage looking the part,” she says firmly.

Castiel wants to retort that all his tattoos kind of fuck that plan up real good, wants to say that he wouldn’t want to work for any company that makes him hide who he is behind a clean cut and pristine skin, but he doesn’t. Because despite his stubborn desire to hang on to those small parts of identity, what he feels makes him _him_ in this world of plastic and bullshit, he knows he’s going to fold. This position would mean everything to him. And he’s willing to sacrifice a couple things for it.

Castiel frowns, unconsciously rubbing his eyebrow. He just hopes the hole doesn’t close up. Re-piercing it would be a bitch.

“Yeah,” he says dismissively. “Okay, fine.”

Surprisingly, Naomi looks relieved, her frigid posture melting slightly.

“Good,” she murmurs. “Good.”

 

One hand goes to the cross she wears around her neck, playing with it unconsciously.

“We will do it fairly, of course,” she muses, almost talking to herself. “Announce it to the entire school, that everyone can submit a routine, and say the panel of teachers will have the final vote on which one we’ll enter into the final show.” She sniffs. “But that shouldn’t be a problem.”

Castiel squints at her.

“I thought you said no special treatment.”

She delicately ignores his comment, still gripping the cross in her fingers.

 

She’s quiet for a moment, just looking him over. Then she straightens, tipping her head.

“You were wonderful up there.”

Castiel looks up, hardly daring to believe it.

“Very inspired.”

She sniffs, shrugging slightly.

“I’m still disappointed you decided ballet isn’t your area, but you are certainly very well suited to this style.”

Castiel nods, bitterness stinging his throat. He looks away.

 

“Castiel.”

 

Naomi is smiling proudly. She hesitates, then places a hand on his shoulder.

“The National Company would be lucky to have you.”

Then she’s gone, closing the door smartly behind her. Castiel stares at the wall in a daze, trying to sort out his thoughts.

 

He really wants to hate her. It’d be easy to hate her. But despite Naomi’s twisted perception of him, deep down, Castiel thinks she really does want what’s best for him. And pathetically, childishly, he still wants to impress her.

 

 

He brings a hand to his head, trying to breathe evenly.

           

Eventually he slides out his phone, tapping the screen fervently, bringing up Meg’s number.

 

**Sent:**

>> _I need to talk to you. Now._

 

 

x

 

Charlie wheels Dean around and shoves him in the chair. He scowls up at her.

“Easy with the goods there, Ginger.”

“Shut up,” she says cheerfully. “I have to do your liner.”

Dean tries to grab her wrists.

“Oh hell no, you’re not putting freakin’ makeup on me—“

“Sit—still—“

Jo watches with an amused expression on her face, perched on the dressing room counter, half of her head in curlers.

“Do lipstick next.”

“Fuck you, Harvelle.”

“Dean, don’t be such a pissbaby."

"Why you got your hair all twisted up in that shit anyway?" He asks grumpily.

"It might have taken you 20 years to notice, Dean, but I am a girl. And I want to look nice on stage."

"It's just going to get sweaty anyway."

She exchanges a look with Charlie, and mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Boys.”

 

 

Sam skids in barely an hour before they get their final check on stage, and Dean uses the rest of their time to go over their routine with a fine tooth comb, doublechecking the final changes, the little revisions they’ve made. Beginning of Hell Week, they’d pretty much had it down—he only fucked up one of his turns, and Jo forgot they switched sides at one point—but mostly, it was tight. And now, it’s perfect.

Well, as perfect as it can possibly get.

 

 

He knows he could get yelled at, but Dean peeks out from behind the wings, glancing at the audience. It’s starting to fill up, and he feels his adrenaline kick in, pre-show jitters and his excitement starting to take hold.

He heads back down to the dressing rooms, barely avoiding a couple of ballerinas that barge past him in tutus. But Dean just grins.

 

All the costumes and makeup and last minute panic—running backstage to get to your next mark, stretching and practicing and your heart feeling like it's going to pound out of your chest—there’s nothing better.

 

 

Jo and Charlie are flirting obnoxiously when he gets back to their area, and he drags Jo away for a last-minute run through, watching her and Sam with a critical eye.

“Don’t do it full out, I don’t want you to strain yourselves.”

 

“Okay, yeah good, but keep your wrists loose, you want them loose—“

 

“Dean.”

Jo smiles, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“ _Relax_.”

 

Sam snorts, standing and heading over to the mirror. Dean takes a deep breath, blowing it out slowly.

“Yeah. Yeah.”

 

x

 

Dean paces while Jo and Sam watch, tracking his movement back and forth.

The number before theirs ends, and there’s enthusiastic applause, sounding way too loud. Dean swallows.

“Go time,” he whispers.

Sam comes up behind him, nudging him with his elbow.

“It’s gonna be great, Dean.”

“What if, what if they don’t like it? Or if they—“

“Dude.”

Sam comes around his side, smiling.

“ _You_ choreographed it. Of course they’re going to love it.”

Despite his nerves, Dean smiles back. Leave it to his little brother to get all gooey and shit on him right before they go on. Not that he doesn’t appreciate it.

Sam readjusts his beanie, smirking.

“Break a leg, alright?”

“Aren’t you supposed to say _merde_?”

Sam just rolls his eyes, nudging him in position.

The lights go down and the audience quiets, and Dean inhales deeply again, trying to clear his mind.

 

Then they walk out onstage, taking their positions.

 

 

 

 

  


 

 x

 

Bows are the fuckin’ worst.

Dean plasters a smile on his face, hating Naomi for even making them do this seventh grade bullshit. But he does his part, and makes a beeline for the wings at the first available opportunity. He escapes down to the dressing rooms, looking around for Charlie. Meg darts past him, Cas in tow, linked hand in hand. Cas can barely manage a “Hello, Dean,” before he’s whisked away. Dean grits his teeth.

 

Ellen appropriately gushes over all of them, Bobby typically doesn’t say much, but Dean’s glad they came.

As Ellen releases him from his hug, she whispers in his ear.

“You were great, honey,” she says. “Your momma would be proud.”

Dean smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness.

“Thanks, Ellen,” he says quietly.

 

 

“Hey, Winchester!”

He turns his head, spying Andy, waving at him from a little ways off.

“Everyone’s going to Rick’s, you coming?”

“Yeah!” He yells back, before turning to Sam.

“How bout it, man? You want to come?”

Sam shakes his head.

“Sorry, dude. Gotta get up early tomorrow.”

“Laaaame—“

“Responsible,” Sam sniffs. But he slings an arm around his shoulder, giving him a quick squeeze.

“I’ll catch a ride with Bobby. Have fun. Make good choices.”

Dean shoves him off, scowling.

“Alright, nerd.”

 

x

 

He waits by the stage door for Charlie, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when the heavy door bangs open, and Charlie finally spills out, giggling with Jo. Dean raises an eyebrow. They spot Dean and quickly separate, cheeks flushed. Dean’s had too much experience with hiding his hookups from his father to know what that is, but he decides to be a gentlemen and skirts over it. Merely bows the way to the Impala, and the two of them slide in the backseat, tittering. Dean doesn’t fail to notice their hands intertwined against the leather cushion of the backseat.

“You’re not comin’ with?”

“Sorry,” Jo grumbles. “Mom’s being anal as hell.”

“She does realize you’re an adult right?”

“Apparently not.”

Charlie says something back, and in the rear view he sees her lean in. Dean hastily coughs, ducking down and pretending to rummage in his bag. He only surfaces when Charlie finally slides into the passenger seat, her expression definitely a little smugger than it had been earlier.

 

She navigates while Dean drives, and they finally pull up to a lively cantina looking spot, the tiny parking lot nearly overflowing with people. He gets out and Charlie latches onto his side, linking his arm with hers.

"Cheer up, sourpuss," she says as she steers him inside. "You're going to have a good time tonight, even if it kills you."

Dean seriously doubts it.

 

He’s really regretting agreeing to this—seriously—someone at school thought that this would be a good after party. Great idea. A bunch of dancers going out to celebrate by—surprise, surprise—dancing.

 

They enter the smoky air of the bar, filled with the heat of bodies and the smell of sweat. The dance floor’s packed with people, who are grinding against each other in ways that are downright pornographic. Charlie’s eyes light up.

“No,” Dean says gruffly, grabbing her hand, pulling her towards a table near the back where he spotted some Alas dancers. Some are impressively drunk already, while others are calling for drinks, chatting and laughing before taking the floor. He doesn’t see Cas.

It's really not bad, if Dean's being honest. There's a live band, and they're playing enough classic rock that he's cool with it, and it is kind of fun to watch everyone out on the floor. Ballroom's never really been his thing, but he did like it. Even though he might swear up and down to the contrary. He had to bribe Sam with a week’s worth of doing laundry so he wouldn’t tell everyone he walked in on him watching _Shall We Dance_.

 

"Hey, you."

Dean looks up, and none other than Meg Masters drops into the seat next to Charlie, flushed and smiling. She grabs a menu and fans herself, exhaling.

"Bout time you got here. You gotta get out there on the floor, Charles."

Charlie looks wistfully out at the people grouped around the band.

"Ugh, I want to. If only someone would ask me," she says pointedly, making eyes at Dean.

"No," he says again, sliding out his phone. No new texts.

Meg huffs, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She and Charlie start discussing their routines tonight, complaining and groaning about all the things that went oh-so-horribly wrong. Dean tries to tune them out. That sort of stuff stresses him out—he already had enough to worry about, he doesn't want to go over his mistakes on top of it all. Maybe it's a good thing Sam's not here. He does that shit, too.

 

It’s loud and raucous, and Dean should be having fun. Charlie and Meg are laughing and talking next to him, but he feels almost separated from them, continually scanning the dance floor, over and over.

Charlie’s foot is jiggling in time to the music, and she keeps shooting Dean looks. Meg looks between the two of them, a smirk on her lips.

The band starts up a rhythm, with clapping and a way-too-catchy drumbeat, and Charlie stiffens in her seat.

Dean groans internally. This can’t be good.

 

_Yo te miro, se me corta la respiración_

_Cuanto tu me miras se me sube el corazón_

Charlie tugs at his arm.

“Dean—“

“Hell no.”

“Dude, come on.”

“No way.”

“Dean Winchester,” she scowls, doing a remarkable impression of Sam. “You dance on a stage all the damn time, what is the difference?”

Dean takes another sip of his beer.

“Those people actually pay to come see us,” he shoots back.

Charlie glares at him, and Dean shifts uncomfortably, that red-hot stare of hers almost enough to guilt him into dancing with her.

He twirls his beer in his hands, avoiding her eyes.

 

“You are such a buzzkill,” Charlie growls, turning up her nose.

“Broken record, Charlie,” Dean mutters.

“Carrot Top is right, Winchester.”

Meg is _really_ irritating him right now, leaning back in her chair and leering at him, a jet-black lock of hair twined around her fingers.

“That stick is so far up your ass, I don’t think you even could get out on that floor,” she sneers.

“Shut up, Meg,” Dean snaps.

“Miss Bradbury.”

They all look up, but Dean doesn’t need to, because he knows that voice—Cas—freakin’ Cas—is standing at their table.

Dean immediately tries to stare at anything else.

 

Cas smiles widely, extending his hand.

“May I have this dance?” He asks, his eyes twinkling.

Charlie shoots a triumphant grin over at Dean, before turning and taking the offered hand.

“I would love to.”

 

_Bailando, bailando_

_Tu cuerpo y el mio llenando el vacío_

 

Dean watches as Cas leads her out to the floor, slipping a hand around her waist. She places a hand on his shoulder and they start to step back and forth in time, Charlie grinning from ear to ear.

Dean watches them twist to the music, digging his fork into the table.

 

Meg notices his glare, and snorts, taking another sip of her drink.

“You okay there, Dean-o?”

Dean throws his fork down, trying to look indifferent.

“Fine,” he lies.

 

Because it’s not like he’s jealous or anything. He seizes his cheap-ass paper napkin, twisting it mercilessly in his hands.

Dean grits his teeth, trying to rationalize. Charlie doesn’t even swing that way, for God’s sake. But his completely unrequited crush on the dark-haired and absolutely fucking talented dancer currently swinging his best friend all over the floor is doing nothing to improve his mood. He’s kind of surprised Cas isn’t out there spinning Meg around. They’re partners on practically every routine they do, and everyone knows they’re kind of a _thing_. Meg doesn’t seem fazed though, chewing absently at her straw, her hooded eyes looking bored.

 

_La cerveza y el tequila y tu boca con la mía_

_Ya no puedo mas, ya no puedo mas_

 

Dean watches Charlie and Cas moodily. They are plenty of other couples, but the two of them are way too friggin’ close for his taste. Charlie doesn’t really know what she’s doing, ballet doesn’t translate well to salsa for her, he guesses—but Cas takes the lead, moving with a practiced ease.

Cas dips down to whisper in Charlie’s ear, and they both laugh, before he spins her and they whirl around again.

Dean tears the napkin in his hands.

 

“Yeah, we’re not doing this,” Meg says suddenly.

 

She shoves her chair back and stands, and before Dean can protest, she snatches his hand up from the table and is yanking him up.

“Come on.”

"Meg, what the hell—" Dean sputters.

“No, Winchester,” she says firmly, pulling him into the middle of the floor. “We’re dancing. Deal with it.”

 

_Yo quiero estar contigo, vivir contigo_

_Bailar contigo, tener contigo_

 

Dean practically jumps when Meg takes his hands and places them on her hips. Because, fine, rationally, Meg is okay—they haven’t spent too much time together, but her spitfire personality and easy banter with Charlie tended to put her in Dean’s plus column—but Dean doesn’t want to be fucking rational. He can’t help thinking of her and Cas as an ‘item’, and he kind of hates her for that.

 

Meg starts moving her hips as a new song kicks up, and Dean is forced to actually pay attention and focus on the steps so he doesn’t accidentally clock her in the face, or do something embarrassing like trip over his own feet. He’s still feeling highly uncomfortable, not just because they’re dancing in public, _salsa_ dancing in public, but because Meg’s now practically grinding against him. And sure, Dean’s maybe fantasized about Patrick Swayze a bit too many times—dirty dancing, hot, obviously—but this is _Meg_.

 

Dean looks up, and his suspicions are confirmed when he sees Cas’s blue eyes suddenly staring at the pair of them, intense and piercing.

“Um, Meg—“

She drapes an arm around his shoulders, doing some weird twisty thing that Dean just kinda goes with, his instincts kicking in, helping him not make a complete fool of himself. He does hip hop, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t his area.

“What?” She says idly, turning around and grinding her ass against his thigh. Dean almost shoves her off just for that.

He puts them at a more respectable distance, because he obviously isn’t into her—but his dick isn’t listening, just reacting to the friction going on in his pants.

“What are you doing?” He mumbles. “You tryin’ to make him jealous of me, or something?”

Meg pulls back abruptly, giving him an intense squint. Dean stares back, bewildered.

 

Her eyes widen in sudden realization, and she smiles, a mischievous grin Dean knows spells trouble.

“Oh, oh, oh.” She leers. “I’m definitely trying to make him jealous of something.”

 

He doesn’t even have a chance to reply before she spins again, way faster than necessary, and Dean’s forced to grab her waist to stop her from falling. Meg rolls back up against him, smirking.

 

“May I cut in?”

 

Dean’s knees nearly buckle when he hears Cas’s deep voice from over his shoulder. He immediately backs away from Meg.

“Yeah,” he mutters. He drops her hands and turns back to their table, trying to ignore the bitter feeling in his gut.

 

So he nearly has a heart attack when strong fingers catch his wrist and yank him back.

He spins and suddenly finds himself with an armful of Cas.

 

 

He’s vaguely aware of Meg and Charlie linking arms and melting into the crowd, laughing triumphantly.

But then Cas starts moving against him, and everything else blanks out completely.

Cas’s hands find his waist, his lips at his ear.

“Don’t think, just move,” he whispers.

 

He steps forward, and Dean instinctively steps back, and Cas smiles slowly, thrusting his hips forward. Dean’s breath hitches, hands automatically gripping Cas’s shirt. He lets Cas pull their bodies flush, barely an inch of space separating them as they start to move to the music. Cas’s hand finds his own and their fingers curl together—

And then they’re dancing.

 

_Mmmhmm_

_Mmmhmm_

 

Bodies press in on them from every side, and they’re close, they’re so damn close.

 

_Ay, mi música_

 

The club is hot and full of heat, sweaty bodies and the dark throb of the music around them. Cas is like a storm in his arms, the air between them full of static and crackling with heat. He slips a hand down Dean’s back, and Dean can feel the ghost of his touch, like electricity on his skin.

 

_Represent represent Cuba_

_Orishas underground de Havana_

_Represent represent Cuba_

He steps forward and Dean steps back, letting him take the lead. They fall into a simple back and forth motion, Cas’s hand solid and sure in his.

_Te quiero, Havana_

_The rhythm pumping in my heart_

 

He drags his hands up Cas’s arms, coming to rest on his neck. Castiel bends and Dean follows, those hot eyes never once leaving his. Dean forgets everything around him. There’s only Cas, bright and hot and vibrant in front of him, his strong hands sliding down his back, his arms, their faces inches apart.

 

_I'm the one you'll find deep in the groove_

_That drives your body and your senses_

_I'm the heat inside_

_When rhythm and love collide_

 

Cas doesn’t tear his eyes away. He grazes Dean’s forehead with his own, his breath curling against his cheek. They breathe in that sacred space in between their lips, hovering, skimming, just shy of an actual kiss.

 

_Así que mueve, mueve tu culete_

_A mi son como un chupete_

 

Step forward, step back.

They rock together, hips touching dangerously, the hot air of the dance floor wrapping them together as Castiel moves against him, his chest heaving, body rocking against his with the motion of his breath. He draws back, and Dean chases him, catching his wrist and spinning him in. Cas shifts, sliding a hand up his thigh, and Dean sucks in a breath, rolling with the motion of his hips, pulsing with the music and the beat of his heart.

 

_Bring down your last defense_

_Feel your innocence_

 

Cas swivels his hips slowly, grinding against him, and Dean clutches at his neck, letting out a groan. Cas’s eyes darken dangerously. He does it again, this time slipping his hands underneath Dean’s shirt to touch heated skin.

_Slip into the night_

_Baby hold on tight_

 

One hand finds Cas’s hair and he twists through it, pulling him in close. They slowly roll against each other in time with the music. A bead of sweat drips down his back—surely it hadn’t been this hot before? They hadn’t started out so close, and Cas’s eyes are a sharper blue, dark and hungry and possessive.

_Bring down your last defense_

_Feel your innocence_

 

Cas turns slowly and grinds back against Dean, whose hands find Cas’s hips, his breath hot in his ear. Dean is reckless, thrusting his hips forward. He’s fucking hard and Cas knows it—Dean _knows_ he knows it—but he keeps rolling against him, there’s barely any space between their bodies, stuck together with heat and sweat and the scent of sex in the air.

_Slip into the night_

_Baby hold on tight_

 

Cas reaches his arms up to curl around Dean’s neck, fingertips scraping through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

 

_Let me introduce myself_

_Cuba_

 

The couples around them break into a partner-like dance, and Cas doesn’t miss a step. He whirls him around and they retreat to a more respectable distance, settling into the pattern the rest of the couples on the floor are following. They go through the motions, but Dean is burning, his gaze locked on Cas's.

 

_Ay, mi música_

 

The song ends with a flourish, and the crowd around them breaks into applause. Couples start to filter off the dance floor, but neither of them move. They're frozen, just staring at each other, neither willing to break the embrace.

Castiel slips a hand down to his cheek, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

 

They’re frozen.

 

Dean swallows, his hand moving up to meet Cas’s.

Very slowly, he nods.

 

 

x

 

Dean’s back slams against the wall, and Cas is on him a heartbeat. Dean eagerly kisses back, tugging at the front of Cas’s shirt, one hand coming to his head and biting at his lips. Cas’s mouth is hot on his neck, his hands sliding down, down—wandering south and making Dean completely lose his ability for coherent thought.

Cas sucks at his lip, harshing out breathless words.

“Wanted—to do that—“ He says in between kisses—“for ages, wanted you—“

Dean nods stupidly, arching back to bare his throat to Cas’s lips.

“Your place or mine,” Cas breathes, pressing open kisses against the skin there—and at any other time, Dean would totally tease him for such a fuckin’ line— but then Cas’s hand presses up against his cock, and he can’t think of anything else.

“Mine,” Cas whispers quickly.

“Y-yeah,” Dean breathes, clinging desperately to his shoulder. “I’ll-I’ll drive.”

 

Cas pushes back from him, his lips parted, his breath coming hard and short. He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up even more—but he composes himself briefly before going back across the club floor, striding towards the exit. Dean follows him, fumbling for his keys. Cas takes a quick look around, and then Dean’s getting pushed up against the Impala, and hell yeah, he is definitely on board with Cas shoving him against things. Fuck—there’s something so wild about him, as he tugs at Dean’s hair, pulling his head back to expose his throat and bite at the skin there.

“Cas, fuck—“

“Yeah,” he groans. “I want to.”

“What—“

Cas grips his chin, breathing the words against Dean’s lips.

“I want to fuck you.”

 

And if that doesn’t send all the blood straight to his dick.

 

“Then get in the damn car,” Dean growls back, grabbing Cas’s shirt, roughly pushing him back to a more respectable distance. Cas grins, slipping around to the passenger side. Dean glances around before getting in, sticking his keys in the ignition, pulling out of the parking lot as fast as he can. He vaguely remembers he totally ditched Charlie, as well as his practically full beer on the table—but—

Cas bites at his ear, and all other matters seem decidedly less important.

“Downtown,” is all he says, one hand finding its way to his pants, rubbing over him. Dean grips at his thigh, the other hand on the wheel.

"Fuck, Cas—chill—"

"Relax," Cas whispers, and slips a hand underneath his shirt.

Dean sucks in a breath. He really hopes he doesn't crash into something.

 

"Left here," Cas murmurs in his ear. And for a second, Dean wonders what the hell that’s supposed to mean in dirty talk language—when he realizes Cas is actually supposed to be giving him directions. He turns and Cas's hand curls into his, his side pressed up against him in a solid warm line.

He decides to pay back the favor—once he's skidded into a parking spot and they both bolt out of the car—Dean torments him, groping him, hands on his waist as Cas laughs, fiddling in his pockets for his apartment key, pulling him in to kiss him, shushing Dean against his lips.

"Shh, shh, Dean—"

"Don't you want your neighbors to know you're getting laid?" Dean whispers back.

“Definitely not,” Cas pants. “If you keep doing that—“

He gasps.

“ _Fuck_.”

"Just get the door open, Cas."

 

The second he gets the door locked behind them, Cas pins Dean back against the wall and kisses him damn properly—and Dean's pretty sure he goes weak in the knees. He would never admit it out loud, but he kind of likes getting bossed around in bed—and the girls he'd been with had never had the strength to back it up—but Cas is so _—Cas—_ his grip is tight on his wrists and Dean isn't sure he could break it if he tried. He never would have guessed Cas would be like this, rough and handsy and just so fucking unashamed—but he loves it.

Cas gets the zip on Dean's pants down and slips a hand inside his boxers, making Dean groan, arching up and grabbing for Cas as he starts to jerk him off in slow even strokes.

"Cas, Cas, fuck—"

Cas abruptly stops, slipping two fingers to his lips.

"Shhh," he breathes.

Dean goes still, watching him. Cas kisses Dean, all soft and gentle, before giving him that smirk, then he drops to his knees.

 

Dean drops his head back against the wall with a dull _thunk_.

“Jesus.”

He feels Cas chuckle, before he gets back down to business, closing his lips around the tip of Dean’s cock and sucking hard. Dean brings one hand to the back of Cas’s neck, panting as Cas takes him in deeper, one hand impatiently yanking Dean’s jeans further down so he can kiss him everywhere, his hips and thighs and back up to his dick, his warm wet mouth swallowing Dean down.

Dean loses track of time for a bit, his hands curled into Cas’s hair, blue and brown threaded in between his fingers. The familiar heat is starting to pool in his gut, and he gasps, almost whining when he pulls Cas back, who looks up at him with a slightly irritated expression at the interruption.

Dean shakes his head, trying to catch his breath.

“C-cas, you—you keep that up, and this is going to be over way too soon.”

A slow smile crosses Cas’s face, but he can’t resist one last lick, making Dean jerk forward, before he stands, grabbing Dean’s hand.

"Then follow me."

 

Cas pulls him along the hallway down to his bedroom, Dean’s stomach doing somersaults of nervousness and anticipation. Cas shoves him to the bed, and Dean falls back, breathless, watching as Cas shucks his shirt and exposes those fucking sinful tattoos. Dean’s mouth is watering, because he wants to lick every inch of him, trace the lines of ink with his tongue and memorize the patterns, make Cas cry out underneath him until his voice goes hoarse.

Cas apparently, has other plans.

 

He strips remarkably quickly, then helps Dean along, pulling his shirt off over his head, Dean lifting his arms to help, and then Cas falls back on top of him, kissing him feverishly. They just roll against each other for a while, Cas thrusting lazily on top of him while Dean pants and grips at Cas’s shoulders, trying to stifle his groans.

Cas tugs Dean over on top of him, shoving down his jeans and letting him wriggle out of them, before impatiently pulling him back down. Dean grins, leaning down to nip at Cas’s lips.

“Easy, cowboy,” he murmurs. “We’ll get there.”

Cas rolls his eyes, but kisses him anyway, then looks pointedly downwards.

“Are you going to keep running your mouth, Winchester, or are you going to put it to good use?”

 

Dean smirks, but can’t resist kissing Cas one more time before trailing back down, taking Cas’s cock in his mouth. Cas lets out a soft little noise, his fingers curling into Dean’s hair. Dean shifts, getting his hands under Cas’s thighs and spreading his legs, and Cas helps him along, extending them out in a way that should be downright _illegal._ Oh, god, how could Dean forget—he’s fucking _flexible_.

“I fucking love dancers,” Dean groans out.

“I love fucking dancers,” Cas whispers back, and they both huff over, laughing.

 

Cas grabs Dean’s hands and pulls him back up, kissing him, running his hands over Dean’s back. Dean shifts, moving forward to straddle his legs, kneeling into Castiel’s lap. Castiel leans forward, pressing kisses to the corner of his mouth, his jaw—his neck and more. Dean sighs, and tucks Cas into his arms, the barely-there stubble on his cheek scraping with a pleasant burn. Dean rolls with him, breathing hot and wet against his neck.

Dean tips his head back, slowly rocking against him, but Cas suddenly manhandles him into position, sliding his hands up over Dean's stomach, his cock, down over his hips and seizing his ass, and—

“Cas—“

Cas is pulling at his legs, pulling him up, and Dean falls awkwardly forward, hands on the pillows, kneeling over him, and then—

A tongue—warm and wet, god, so fucking _wet_.

“What the fuck,” Dean manages.

 

He curls his hands into the sheets, gasping out Cas’s name. The fucker’s going to _town_ , licking and sucking at his hole, Dean thinks he may die—Jesus _Christ_.

He’s only done this a couple times, seeing as until recently he thought he was as straight as they come—(but c’mon, what straight guy fantasizes about getting pushed up against a wall by both Dr. Piccolo _and_ Dr. Sexy)—so realizing and accepting that he liked dick had been a very pleasurable experience.

 _Oh_. Very pleasurable.

 

Dean arches back, eyes half open, mouth panting against the cotton as Cas works at his hole, licking over him like he’s starved for it.

 

Dean’s knuckles turn white as he grips at the sheets, unable to stop himself from groaning.

“C-cas, fuck, _fuck_.”

Cas opens him up torturously slow, and there’s nothing Dean can do but hold on and enjoy the ride.

“Lube,” Cas grunts, in perhaps the most unsexy way possible, but Dean doesn’t care. Cas could start reciting the fuckin’ quadratic formula in bed and Dean would still love it.

He fumbles for the bottle that Cas had thrown on the bed at some point, passing it to him, and Cas doesn't waste any time, slipping the first finger inside him, moving it in slow circles.

 

"Next time you can do this," Cas pants after a minute or two, now slipping a second finger into him.

Dean rocks back and forth on his hand, gasping.

"W-what?"

Cas still manages to pull off that ever-patient face and that smirk, even naked with two fingers buried in Dean’s ass.

"I don’t know about you, but I don’t intend this to be a one-time thing."

"Oh thank god," Dean groans, pulling Cas up into a kiss.

 

 

Cas fumbles, grabbing a condom from somewhere, struggling to rip it open. Dean grabs it from him impatiently, and reaches behind him to slide it on Cas’s cock.

He finally gets it on and rocks back, but Cas stops him, slipping two fingers inside him again. He must have slicked them up while Dean was screwing with the condom and holy shit—

“I want you,” Cas whispers. Dean just nods stupidly, rocking back into the pressure inside him.

They just stay like that for a minute, kissing feverishly, before Cas slathers his dick with lube, grabs Dean’s hips and—

Dean sinks down onto Cas’s cock, his eyes screwed shut, his mouth falling open.

_“Fuck.”_

Cas doesn’t move for a minute, just watching Dean, a thumb stroking over his thigh. Dean settles fully on top of him, his chest heaving, digging his fingers into the sheets by Cas’s head. Cas reaches up, brushing the hair out of Dean’s eyes, dragging his hand through Dean’s hair and pulling him down for a kiss.

He starts rocking up into him, just short little movements, and Dean sucks in a breath, adjusting to the sharp pinch of pleasure of the stretch, his thighs trembling.

“Goddamn,” he mutters.

He feels rather than sees Cas’s smile as he mouths against Dean’s neck, those sinful lips on his throat.

 

One hand comes up to grip Dean’s shoulder, and Dean clutches at the back of Cas’s neck, mouth dropping open as Cas starts moving in earnest, thrusting in and out of him, stretching him open and filling him with a hot burn. Dean doesn't try and talk anymore, he’s just clutching as Cas’s cheeks, panting into his mouth, Cas’s eyes fixed on his face. He’s unbelievable, he’s barely moving but he’s shattering Dean apart, thick and lightning-quick and his lips tasting like heaven. 

Dean pushes Cas back and gets his hands on Cas’s chest so he can ride him properly, fucking himself down on Cas’s cock, head dropping forward, little punched out noises escaping him on every thrust. Cas watches him, in a dazed kind of awe, his eyes lidded and glassy. His hands never stop moving, over Dean’s thighs, up his stomach, wrapping around his cock to give Dean a couple strokes, his fist loose and hot.

He looks up, meeting Dean’s eyes.

“Kiss me,” he breathes.

 

He rocks back and forth on top of Cas, meeting him with each slow roll of their hips, their foreheads pressed together, panting, sharing the same air. Dean can’t stop dragging his hands through that hair, twisting and pulling just a little too hard when it gets too good, when the slide inside him feels perfect and hot and he’s pretty damn sure he’s gonna come soon, especially—

Cas kisses him again, and then two strong hands are shoving him to the mattress. Dean stretches out on his back, Cas hovering over him with a strange predatory glint in his eye, and Dean sucks in a breath. He arches back, spreading his legs.

Cas falls in between them, lining himself back up and pushing in with one smooth motion, making Dean curse and wrap his legs around him. Cas dips down, hands sliding up Dean’s arms, pushing them up above his head.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers.

 

And before Dean can even figure out what that means, Cas pins his hands and fucks into him _hard_.

Dean arches back, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head.

“F-fuck, _Cas_ ,” he pants out. At this new angle, it’s _intense_ and Dean is groaning, completely losing control. Cas lets go of his wrists and Dean goes wild, just clutching at Cas, grabbing desperately at his shoulders, his arms, his hair—

“Ca-cas, fuck, ‘m gonna come, gonna—“

And even more intense than the sex, is Cas, keeping his eyes on Dean the whole time. With the eye contact and the rough kisses and Cas’s hands on his cheeks, panting words into his mouth—Dean finally snaps.

 

He jerks up, digging his hands into Cas’s back and crying out, before falling back down against the mattress, his vision briefly striping blue.

“C-cas, fuck—“

Castiel works Dean through it, slowing his hips and kissing Dean everywhere, his jaw, his neck his throat, as Dean tries to breathe, his whole body shaking as he comes back down to earth.

He slides up a hand, cupping the back of Cas’s neck as Cas shifts against him, pulling out and yanking off the condom, one hand braced against the bed as he quickly strokes his cock, until—

Cas comes with a soft sound, a whisper of _Dean_ on his breath. Come stripes Dean’s stomach, and he drops his head back, listening to Cas panting above him.

 

_Holy shit._

Then there’s a hand on his, Cas dipping down to kiss him. Dean sinks into the taste of his lips, feeling wonderfully fuzzy.

 

Cas pulls back, his eyes soft.

“Be right back,” he whispers.

Regrettably, the heat of Cas’s body leaves him as he slides off the bed, grabbing a washcloth from the bathroom. Dean exhales slowly, throwing an arm over his face.

 

Shit. _Shit._

 

Cas comes back and cleans them up, and Dean refuses to lower his arm. He can’t look at Cas. Fucking mindblowing as that was, he doesn’t want this fantasy to end. He doesn’t want to do the dance, the _hey that was fun, guess I’ll see you tomorrow_ , the shameful collecting of the clothes and being all too familiar with driving home at 3 am. Cas said he didn't want this to be a one-time thing—but that could've been a heat of the moment thing, maybe he didn't actually mean it—

 

“Hey.”

 

Cas gently tugs his arm away, and Dean swallows, looking up. Those blue eyes are still too perfect, still too focused on him, but now overcast with a slight concern.

“Where’d you go?” He asks softly, brushing a thumb over his cheek.

Then he laughs, a hesitant edge to his voice.

“Was it really that bad?”

Dean sits up.

“God, no—“

His hands find Cas’s face and he kisses him, letting all his fear and joy and emotion spill into that kiss, hoping that Cas will, on some level, understand.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he murmurs. Then he bites his lip, not daring to say it. Cas, apparently, can read minds, though.

“Stay,” he whispers back, brushing back the hair from Dean’s forehead.

 

“Not one to boast, but I make some pretty good pancakes,” he says, his lips curling up into a smile.

Relief floods through him, and Dean falls back, tugging Cas on top of him.

“Holding you to it,” he grins, arching up for a kiss.

 

Castiel laughs, and leans back down, but instead of going for his mouth, he shifts up, and kisses his goddamn forehead.

Dean’s stomach swoops.

Oh no.  

 

Cas lies down next to him, slipping an arm around his waist. And though Dean will deny it to his dying day, he hums, curling back up against him. Castiel hums contentedly, nosing against his neck. Dean closes his eyes, letting Cas lace their fingers together, sighing.

Miles of sweaty warm skin. It’s like heaven.

 

“Don’t go anywhere,” Cas breathes into his hair.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [I Can't Tell You Why](http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x31yyt1) by The Eagles

 

 

“Mmph.”

“Agreed.”

 

Dean blinks his eyes open. He grunts again, shifting a little.

“Wha’timesit?”

He glances up to see Cas smiling lazily down at him. His stomach gives that dumb little twinge again.

“Are you always this articulate in the morning?”

Dean just grunts.

"Apparently."

 

Dean peeks open an eye at him, and Cas grins, tugging him in for a kiss.

 

He groans, reluctantly breaking from his mouth.

“Seriously, though, what time is it?”

Cas reaches over his head to the nightstand, turning around a battered alarm clock.

“Two thirty.”

“Pm?”

Dean props himself up on his elbow, rubbing his face.

“Jesus. How did that happen?”

Cas chuckles.

“I think we left the bar around four.”

“Shit,” Dean grumbles, burying his face back into the pillow. “And three hours ‘til call, fuck.”

Cas runs a hand over his back.

"Better get moving then."

 

Dean turns his head, smiling up at him.

“I think there was something about pancakes?”

Cas lazily climbs over him, giving him a quick but dizzying kiss.

“I’ll start the coffee,” he murmurs into his lips. “Meet you in the shower?”

Dean grins, squeezing his hand.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

 

They exchange lazy sloppy blowjobs in Cas’s tiny-ass shower, and afterwards Dean pulls on his clothes from last night after, smiling dopily as he towels at his wet hair. He wanders out into the kitchen, following the smell of coffee and something cooking. Cas is wearing that loose navy dance tank, the one Dean first saw him in, his tattoos just visible underneath. He stretches, popping a couple of his joints as he waits for the pan to heat up, spatula in hand. Dean stands there, watching with a stupid and probably really sappy smile on his face.

He coughs and clears his throat, sitting down at the kitchen island, looking around at Cas's apartment. It’s small, but cozy—empty coffee cups everywhere, the faint lingering scent of smoke on the air—and an assortment of motley furniture, haphazardly clumped together. The wall is covered by faded posters, stuck to every inch so you can barely see the brick underneath. It's small, it's messy, and it's something that’s straight out of Sam's nightmare.

Dean loves it.

 

“I like your place.”

Cas smiles.

“Yeah?”

He glances around.

“It’s small, but it's my own. My mom keeps badgering me to take her money, but…”

“That would defeat the purpose,” Dean finishes. He knows the feeling.

Cas nods. “Yeah. So I work as much as I can down at the bar. At least I get good tips.”

“’Cause you’re hot,” Dean teases.

Cas winks.

“But taken.”

Dean stiffens.

 

Cas rolls his eyes, tugging at the front of his shirt.

“You, dumbass. I mean you.”

“Oh.” Dean says, relaxing. “Right.”

 

Cas smiles, reaching out to mess up his hair. Dean scowls, batting his hand away. He just smirks and turns back to the stove. Dean bites his lip.

"To be honest, I, uh...I always thought you and Meg had a thing," he confesses.

Cas snorts.

"No way. I think she may have liked me when we were like 13—"

"Really?"

"Yeah. We've been in and out of classes together for years," he says, putting a mug in front of Dean. He shrugs. "I’ve been at Alas pretty much since I could walk."

Dean wraps his hands around the mug, inhaling the welcome bitter smell of the coffee.

"Yeah? Why?"

Cas stops for a second.

"Um. My mom is—was—a dancer, too. She wanted to start me early, I guess.”

"Well, it shows."

Cas raises an eyebrow.

"Was that a compliment?"

Dean blushes.

"Maybe."

 

"Well for the record you're pretty good too."

 

"Was that a compliment?" Dean parrots back at him. Cas swats at him with the spatula.

Dean sips at his coffee tentatively, trying not to burn his tongue.

“So…taken,” he says slowly as Cas flips the pancakes.

“Does that mean—“

“It means whatever you want it to mean,” Cas says idly, turning down the heat. He leaves it at that, heaping pancakes on a plate and putting it in front of him with a smile.

He turns back to the stove, humming.

Dean looks down at his plate. Cas obviously tried to make a smiley face, but the chocolate chips form only a sort of lopsided grin. Dean stares at them, his throat tightening.

 

Cas serves himself and comes around the side of the counter, sliding into the seat next to him.

“Eat. You have a show soon,” he says, kissing his temple briefly. Dean catches his hand.

“Cas.”

He pulls him in, kissing him long and slow.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. Cas doesn’t say anything, but Dean thinks he understands.

“Of course.”

He turns to his plate and starts to dig in, with a goofy smile on his face. Dean does too. He didn’t realize he was so hungry until now.

 

 

Castiel digs a fork into his own pancakes, unusually happy. He can't remember the last time he was this excited to wake up. Or to eat his shitty out-of-the-box mix pancakes with fake syrup. He bets Dean would make his from scratch. He seems like the kind. He had mentioned in passing something about cooking for his brother, and Castiel expects Dean probably isn't impressed by his meager skills.

He kind of thought this was going to just be sex, at first. But somewhere down the line Castiel realized he actually liked Dean. In between the text conversations, rehearsals, seeing him dance and simply seeing him, goddamn—Castiel realizes—

 

Wait. He likes him.

 

Oh no.

 

 

He clears his throat.

"Uh, actually, had something I wanted to tell you about."

Dean glances at him.

"Yeah?"

“Don’t know if you’re familiar, but there’s this…competition thing.” He scratches his head. “An annual one. The National Dance Company puts it on—"

" _The_ National Dance Company?"

Dean has stopped eating and is staring at him, his eyebrows slightly raised. Castiel nods.

"They've chosen Alas to host it this year. Should be sometime in May."

"Wait—really?”

Dean wipes his mouth, a smile spreading across his face.

"Dude, that’s awesome.”

Castiel fidgets with his fork, twirling it through the leftover syrup on his plate.

“I’m, uh…I’m going to submit a routine.”

Dean blinks at him. Castiel glances up, and the way Dean is staring at him makes his heart beat faster.

"You're gonna win."

Castiel drags a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, well, you have to say that—“

"I mean it, Cas! I’m not just humoring you, even though you _did_ just rock my world--"

"I'm going to stab you with this fork."

"Bring it on, punk, if you think you can take me—"

 

Castiel attacks him, and it turns into a wrestling session that ends with a lot of gratuitous making out.

 

x

 

 

Jo, of course, is on his ass the minute he steps foot inside the theatre.

“Dean, hey, now that you’re here, I was wondering if we could go over some stuff for our routine, I got a couple notes—“

“Yeah, sure, Jo, just gimme a sec.”

“Because it was good, yeah, but there are some things I think we can tighten up—“

“Mmhm,” Dean responds vaguely, pulling open the door to the dressing room.

“So as soon as you’re dressed, I thought we could—“

Then Jo stops dead. Dean turns around, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Wait.”

 

“What?” He asks, dropping his bag on the counter.

“That’s your after show outfit,” she says, a slow grin spreading across her face. “The one you were wearing last night.”

Dean flushes.

“Shut up, Jo.”

“Which means you didn’t change last night.”

“Shut up, Jo.”

“Dean Winchester got some,” she says gleefully.

“Shut up, Jo!” he says one final time, cheerfully slamming the door in her face.

 

Even her ribbing can’t get him down today. He feels like he could run a fucking marathon.

He pulls out his shoes, a dumb smile spreading across his face. It’s an hour or so before he has to put on stage makeup (ugh, frikkin’ makeup) but he’ll deal with Jo before then. And Cas promised him a pre-show makeout.

He grins.

Life is lookin’ up.

 

x

 

Applause smatters behind him, occasionally breaking up the silence. Dean cranes his neck, trying to see over the mass of people flooding through the backstage corridor, all rushing to change or get to their spots, or just to watch from the wings, even though they're technically not supposed to. And then, he sees her.

“Hey.”

Dean snags Meg’s arm, and she pauses briefly, throwing an irritated look back at him. But once she sees who it is, her face melts into a smirking smile, her face triumphant.

“Oh. Hey, Dean.”

“Hey. Sorry to um, grab you in between numbers, but, um…”

Dean drops his voice down low.

“Thank you. Seriously.”

Her lips curl, and she smiles up at him, her glossy hair catching the stage lights.

“Welcome.”

Then she smacks his ass, and he jerks forward, gasping.

“Hope you’re not too sore,” Meg says slyly, giving him a wink before she sashays off.

 

 

x

 

Jo flips her hair over her shoulder, narrowing her eyes.

“You’re in a good mood.”

Dean shrugs. She rolls her eyes.

“Seriously. You never like having to help me back here.”

She shifts a couple patties towards him on the grill, eyeing him sideways.

“What’s up?”

Dean tries not to smile like an idiot. Of course he’s in a good mood.

He and Cas are discovering a lot of things together. Like the fact that Dean is ticklish, particularly in that spot under his ribs that they both recently discovered. Especially if there’s a tongue involved. Cas likes it when Dean nibbles at his earlobes. Dean likes to bite the dimples above Cas’s ass. Cas blushes prettily when he’s on his knees in front of Dean, the sweat on his back making his tattoos shine like freshly painted ink.

And Cas’s mouth is the goddamn eighth wonder of the world.

But there’s other things, too

 

Like Cas hates pickles. His favorite band is the Eagles. He can quote the Bible word for word then Richard Dawkins in the next breath, and sometimes he makes Dean laugh so hard that he has to cover his face until it subsides, his stomach hurting from laughter.

And Dean discovers he likes sharing Cas’s warmth on the couch, his head in Cas’s lap and the glowing flicker of the television in the background. He likes it when Cas slowly drags his fingers through his hair, drawing what Dean is sure is confessions into his scalp.

Honestly, Cas is good for him, ‘cause he drags Dean’s ass out of his apartment and actually makes him _do_ things, things Dean has always wanted to do, but laziness or hesitation prevented him from actually doing them. After all, he couldn’t just go to all these places _alone_ —and Sammy is way too busy, and probably wouldn’t care about his crappy interests anyway.

Last night they were at a donut place until three am, around the corner from their apartment, after Cas and Dean had come back from school to find Sam at the kitchen table with his head still stuck in a book. Dean forcibly dragged him out, because _—‘you have to get fresh air at some point, dude’—_ and they sat at one of the crappy tables squished in the corner, Sam and Cas arguing heatedly about whether Pluto should still be a planet. At any other time, Dean would’ve totally joined in (viva la Pluto, fuck you) but he was beat from rehearsal and work. He just watched them gesture over the shitty plastic table in sleepy amusement instead, his head on Cas’s shoulder.

 

 It’s so easy. It’s almost as if nothing’s changed. They’re still friends, like they’d been before. They still laugh, they joke, they fight over what movie to watch and they tease each other mercilessly.

But now there’s also touching. No hesitation, no kept back confessions, no held in thoughts. Dean wants to touch him and so he does. He’s allowed to. This is his now.

 

"Dude—"

 

Jo snaps her fingers in front of his face. He jolts out of it.

"What?"

As an answer she just waves the smoke out of her face, wrinkling her nose. Dean looks down at the grill, and realizes half of his shit is burning.

"Oh, fuck—"

 

Dean gets banned from kitchen duty.

 

x

 

**Bobby:**

>> _need 2 cvr shift thurs. xtra detailing can u_

>> _can u come_

 

**Sent:**

<< _Bobby was that English_

 

**Bobby:**

>> _get ur ass here. six pm_

 

x

 

Now that there’s no show, Bobby starts pressing down on him a little. He says it’s because he’s the best mechanic he’s got—but Dean knows it’s his weird way of helping out with their money situation. Because Dean does not accept charity. He earns his dollars, thank you very much.

So with Cas working and Dean working and class on top of it all—it’s a miracle when they actually get time to spend with each other. But those days are usually the highlight of Dean’s week.

 

One day, they’re waiting outside by the curb, idling while they wait for Sam to get out of class. Somehow it comes up that Cas has never seen Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. Dean decides this is an outrage.

 

Later, splayed over each other, tired and sweaty, Dean flops over, grabbing the remote.

“Okay. Netflix time.”

 

Cas nearly falls asleep but Dean plies him with coffee and promises of sexual favors, and they manage to finish it. Cas pinches his brow as the credits roll.

“Okay. I get why you like it. But I don’t understand why their time machine was a phone booth, of all things.”

"The car thing was already taken."

"What?"

 

...

 

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’VE NEVER SEEN BACK TO THE FUTURE WHO ARE YOU—"

Cas throws a pillow at him.

 

x

 

**Sent:**

>> _can you leave the door unlocked for me I forgot my key_

 

**Moose:**

<< _yeah no prob_

 

**Sent:**

>> _thanks_

>> _btw cas is coming over_

>> _make yourself scarce_

 

**Moose:**

<< _gross dean_

 

**Sent:**

>> _just giving you fair warning_

>> _a ‘heads up’ if you will_

>> _(_ _͡°_ _͜ ʖ_ _͡°)_

 

**Moose:**

<< _DUDE_

 

x

 

“That tickles.”

“Sorry.”

Dean grins to himself, smoothing over Cas’s back with his hand again.

 

“Just admiring,” he murmurs.

 

Cas has a lot of tattoos. Like a _lot_. More than anyone Dean’s ever slept with at least. He tries to shove that thought back, tries not to think of Lisa, and the cascade of stars down her spine.

Instead he turns to Cas’s shoulder, rubbing gently at the muscle and the almost watercolor-like design there, dizzy with color.

 

Cas angles his head down, smiling lazily at him.

 

 

Dean drifts his hand down his side, down over a block of text in a language Dean doesn’t know, and his hand stops at his favorite.

 

A beautiful feather, large and inky, sweeping up the curve of Cas’s hip and down his thigh.

 

Dean vaguely remembers hanging on for dear life to that part of Cas, gripping and clutching to his skin until he felt like he really was flying.

 

He pauses at one he didn’t see before, and he squints, trying to decipher the loopy text.

“I feel confidence—“

“Confident,” Cas corrects idly, closing his eyes.

 

“Confident,” Dean repeats, dragging his fingers over the ink. “That I should have been a rebel angel, had the opportunity been mine.”

Dean brushes a thumb over the line of text again, frowning.

 

“Keats.”

 

Cas smiles, knocking him with his knee.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Hey, I read,” Dean mutters.

 

He continues to dot his fingers amongst the inked letters, thinking.

“Why that?”

“Why what?”

“You know what I mean, asshole,” he says, smacking him lightly.

Cas growls, burying his face in the pillow.

“I don’t know. I liked it. It seemed sufficiently deep but not too pretentious.” He huffs, his voice muffled against the cotton. “I was dumb and on a rebellious kick. Take your pick.”

Dean tugs at his hair.

“I don’t think it’s dumb.”

He props his chin up on his hand, peering at Cas.

“C’mon. Spill.”

Dean shrugs.

“I told you all about my dumb reasons for this,” he says, tapping the tattoo on his chest, the pentagram laced in ink the one that matched his brother’s.

“Your turn.”

He waits, but Cas is suddenly quiet, his shoulders stiff.

“Tell you later, okay?”

Dean frowns.

“What’s up?”

Cas doesn’t answer, he just rolls over and slots up next to him running a hand up his thigh.

“Cas—“

Cas nuzzles into him, lightly pressing a hand against his cock, and Dean sucks in a breath. He tries to say something else, but Cas presses harder, and

Dean gives up. Cas sees him go loose and smiles, tucking his head into the crook of Dean’s neck, inhaling as he starts to rock against him, one hand gripping Dean’s shoulder.

Dean grips at Cas, tipping his head back and letting out a soft groan as Cas starts mouthing at his neck, hot open-mouthed kisses over his throat, sucking just enough to make Dean feel dizzy, the wet tip of his tongue soothing the flame in his skin.

Cas grabs his leg and hikes it up so they can fit better together—and Dean rolls his hips forward, chasing the rush, that electric pulse that runs through him every time Cas’s cock drags against his own, hot pressure and silky soft skin.

All thoughts fly out the window—and yeah, Cas might be distracting him with sex—but right now, Dean’s not complaining.

He comes with Cas’s hand on his cock and him whispering the absolutely filthiest shit Dean's probably ever heard in bed, and it's not long after that they both pass out.

They can talk another day.

 

x

 

“Hey, I know it’s like, uh, super fast, or whatever—“ Dean twists open his water bottle, shrugging. “But Christmas is next week—“

“Really? I had _no_ idea—“

“Shut up,” Dean shoots back. “But anyway—if you don’t have plans the 23rd, everybody’s gettin’ together.”

Castiel smiles.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dean hums absently, poking at the weird-ass salad Sam packed him for lunch. Guy is on a health kick again and there has been nothing edible in their fridge (in Dean’s opinion) for the past week.

“And I would like to cordially invite you. As my date.”

Cas laughs, nodding.

“I’d love to.”

Dean grins.

“Awesome.”

 

Cas props his cheek on his hand, an amused expression on his face as he watches Dean inhale his food.

“You doin’ anything?” Dean asks, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “With your family?”

He doesn’t notice Cas tense up.

“Both my parents are gone, but I can’t wait to meet yours. If they’re anything like you, I’m sure they’re cool.”

He glances up, noticing Cas’s expression—and realizes he completely put his foot in his mouth.

“Oh, shit, Cas, sorry—you don’t—“

“No, it’s okay.” Cas fiddles with his shirt, picking at a thread in his sleeve. “Uh, it’s just me and my mom.” He doesn’t meet his eyes. “But she’s kind of…kind of strict. I dunno.”

Dean blinks, realizing.

“Oh.”

He had just assumed, given the nature of the school and the fact that everyone at Alas is practically not-straight, Cas’s mom would know. Guess she doesn’t.

“Dude—no. It’s chill.”

Cas still looks uncomfortable. Dean reaches out, squeezing his hand.

“Hey. Forget about it, alright?” He shrugs. “You met Sammy. That’s family enough, right?”

 

Cas threads his fingers through Dean’s own, a small smile on his face.

  
“Right.”

 

Cas comes up to him one day, tapping something against his chest.

“Look what I got.”

Dean frowns, taking it and turning it over.

“Dude—the show DVD!”

Cas smirks.

“Yup.”

“Though they didn’t get them yet! The email said Friday.”

Cas shrugs with that mischievous smile.

“Got friends in high places.”

Dean assumes he means Ash, but he doesn’t really care—because he’s suddenly giddy, both excited and nervous to see how their dance turned out.

“That’s it, I’m deciding—viewing party tomorrow night. You in?”

Cas grins.

“Definitely.”

 

They all pile into Dean and Sam’s tiny living room. The couch Cas slept on is now jammed with Jo, Charlie—and Sam just squeezing in. Cas is sitting in the armchair, Dean on the floor, leaning back against Cas’s legs.

They share beers and laughter and fast forward through the dances none of them are in, until Charlie comes up with the brilliant idea to make a drinking game out of it.

“Oooh, she fucked up a turn. Drink.”

“Fouettés _again_. Drink.”

“Gross sequined costumes! Drink!”

 

Charlie covers her face in shame during the ballet number, muttering the whole time about her shitty partner, even though they all compliment her mercilessly, telling her she’s the best one out there. Jo smothers her in kisses and Charlie squawks in embarrassment and elbows her off, but looks considerably more cheerful after that.

Dean doesn’t even blink an eye when Bad Company comes up, because now he knows Cas is definitely not interested in Meg, and he can really appreciate it. Damn, does he ever appreciate it.

He curls a hand around Cas’s leg, giving it a squeeze. Cas glances down and clinks their beer bottles together, smiling at him.

They all whoop and clap appreciatively at the end of it, and Cas stands to take a little bow.

 

A couple dances later—Dean’s comes up.

Dean shifts, kind of nervous. It felt good when they danced it, but he wants to know how it looks from an audience. He watches with a way too critical eye, noticing every little mistake and error in his own movements, but when Cas leans down and whispers in his ear, Dean melts.

“Looks amazing.” He kisses his cheek. “You’re amazing.”

Dean pulls him down and they get distracted for a bit, until Sam and Jo throw popcorn at them and yell at them to get a room.

 

The credits finally roll, and they cheer appreciatively, downing the last of their drinks. Dean hooks up his phone to the stereo and Charlie gets them all another round of beer, and it devolves into a drunken dance party, all of them trying to one up the other.

Jo is decidedly being a stick in the mud and refusing to dance with him, so Dean starts dancing up on her where’s she’s sitting on the couch, smirking.

“C’mon Jo, c’mon—“

She kicks at him as Sam laughs hysterically next to her, snorting into his beer. Dean croons to her.

“Laaaaaaady, from the moment I saw youuuuu—“

“Get off me you lump—“

 

By two thirty, everyone’s pretty much exhausted. Sam had muttered something about being the fifth wheel, and was now passed out on the couch, sprawled in Charlie’s lap while she drunkenly braids his hair, arguing with Jo over his head about Game of Thrones.

Cas comes back from the bathroom and slips his arms around Dean’s waist.

“Care for a dance?” He asks, smiling. Dean grins.

“Always.”

 

The song changes a moment later, and Dean thanks god for kismet.

Cas chuckles.

“Eagles.”

Dean smiles.

“Yup.”

“You planned that.”

“Purely by chance, I swear.”

“Uh huh.”

 

_Look at us baby, up all night_

_Tearin’ our love apart_

They sway gently back and forth, Cas’s hands warm on Dean’s back.

“So,” Cas says after a moment. “What do you want to do?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean…everybody knows I’m trying to make the company…if I get this audition…”

 

_And I can’t tell you why_

“What about you?” Cas asks, and he sounds genuinely interested. “You never told me why you were at Alas.”

Dean clears his throat, looking away from those piercing blue eyes.

“I dunno. Gotta do something with my time.”

Cas gives him a look.

“Dean. C’mon.”

Dean shrugs, thinking a minute before answering.

“I mean, I guess that’s everybody’s dream,” he starts slowly. “But…well, it’s not in the cards for me. I’m not good enough.”

Cas stops moving.

“Yes, you are.”

“Cas, you don’t have to lie to me—“

“I’m not lying.”

Cas is staring at him intently, and Dean shifts, feeling transparent under that gaze.

“Dean, you’re incredible,” he says softly.

He brings a hand up to his cheek. They’re both more than a little drunk, which is probably the only reason they’re having this conversation—but Dean turns into the touch anyway, sighing.

“The way you move, the way you command attention…” Cas brushes a thumb over his cheek. “Do you realize how people look at you? They can’t keep their eyes off you. Watching from the wings those last two shows…not gonna lie. I was getting a little jealous,” he says, a small smile on his lips.

Dean smirks.

“Yeah?”

“Seriously.”

Castiel leans forward, leaning his forehead against his own.

“Anything you want to do, you can.”

Dean leans in to kiss him.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

 

 

x

 

The next morning, Castiel wakes up slowly, Dean tucked under his arm. He smiles and pulls him closer, burying his face in Dean’s hair. He dozes for a little while, rudely jolted out of it when there’s a banging on the door.

“I’m off! See you tonight!” Sam’s voice yells, followed by the slam of the front door.

 

The bed shifts next to him as Dean stirs. He cracks open an eye, glancing at the time before groaning, planting his face back in the pillow. Castiel sits up, rubbing his eyes.

“Ughh,” he groans out. “I’m sorry, but I have to go. I have class at 12.”

Dean refuses to let go, pulling him tighter.

“Nooo,” he mumbles sleepily.

“Dean,” Cas says gently, prising his arms from around his waist. “Let me up.”

He blinks at the mess around him, his head still feeling a little foggy. Right. Clothes.

“Where are my boxers—“

He finally spots them and scoops them up, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug them on.

Dean wraps his arms around him and pulls him back though, and Castiel falls on top of him.

“Let’s not be too hasty—“

 

 

Castiel ends up being late for class.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [These Arms of Mine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aUaO50nWnvg) by Otis Redding

Christmas is a boozy festive affair, and over way too soon. Ellen graciously invites everyone over, and Sam is a little shit with the mistletoe, stealing kisses from everyone the more eggnog he drinks. Charlie kisses a blushing Jo on the cheek under the watchful eye of her mother, and somehow Bobby ends up with a Christmas hat, his cheeks just about as red. Dean insists they wear ridiculous sweaters, and even though it’s itchy as hell, it’s worth it because Dean is beaming all night, and they take way too many pictures, looking ‘grossly adorable’ according to Charlie.

 

Castiel had been kind of anxious about it, if he’s being honest—spending the holiday with Dean, but it turned out to be one of the best Christmases he’s ever had. Bobby and Ellen were gruff but wonderful, and it was a good mix, of food and fun and teasing. No wonder Dean is the way he is—growing up with that kind of love. Castiel tries not to be too wistful about it.

His own Christmas Day had been spent much like all the others. Attending mass with his mother, where he was forced to put on slacks and a tie to look ‘presentable’, while every old lady gave him scandalized and/or dirty looks when they caught sight of his hair. His mother continued her tradition of sitting ramrod straight, her eyes narrowed, providing running commentary under her breath about the other members of the church, instead of…actually listening to the sermon.

Then, stiff and silent dinner on opposite ends of a long table.

You know. Christmas.

 

New Year’s at least, he was free. Not exactly a family holiday—more like get shitfaced and drunkenly count down the start to another crappy year—but this time, it wasn’t so bad.

There was a party with the Alas crew, hosted at Balthazar’s, so Castiel put in an appearance, then headed back to his apartment. Dean came over later, already tipsy from pregaming with Jo and Charlie. They got stoned on what Castiel had leftover from Ash, and Dean fucked him on his kitchen counter.

They nearly missed the ball drop, just turning the TV on in time.

 

 

“Happy New Year, Cas,” Dean whispered, tipping his chin towards him for a kiss.

They kissed on the couch lazily, moving against each other as fireworks lit up the sky.

 

x

 

**Moose:**

>> _dude watch this video_

>> _http://goo.gl/yNVFS0_

 

**Sent:**

<< _shouldnt you be in class_

 

**Moose:**

>> _yeah but it’s a dog that can’t go through a doorway dean_

>> _LOOK AT IT_

 

x

**Ellen:**

>> _If you’re free Saturday, we’d love to have you over sweetheart. There might be dinner in it for you :)_

 

**Sent:**

<< _yeah definitely!_

<< _what time?_

 

**Ellen:**

>> _Six sound good? And you can drag that grumpy boss of yours along_

 

**Sent:**

<< _you got it_

 

x

 

 

Dean drops down onto the couch, pulling off his boots. He can hear Ellen humming in the kitchen, her and Sam’s soft conversation, the smells wafting their way over to him. He takes a big whiff, and smiles. His stomach rumbles appreciatively.

 

Bobby comes back from the kitchen, handing him a beer, and an envelope.

Dean frowns.

“What’s this?”

He opens it up, seeing the check tucked neatly inside. He swallows, folding it back up and handing it back towards him.

“Bobby, I can’t take this.”

Bobby doesn’t take the envelope, sitting down in the armchair across from him instead, grabbing the remote.

“Yes, you can.” He kicks back, flipping on the TV. “Sam said you were stressin’, so…”

“Bobby, it’s fine.”

“Hey, I’m not calling you a charity case.”

Bobby glances back at him, shrugging.

“Consider it a…birthday present.”

Dean shakes his head, still stubbornly holding the envelope out.

“Bobby…”

“Can it,” Bobby says gruffly. “It’s done.”

 

He flips to the right channel, settling back to watch as the title card splashes across the screen. Dean dips his head, huffing out a laugh.

But he tucks the envelope into his pocket, a warm loose feeling in his stomach.

 

“Now, no talking, alright?” Bobby says, pointing a finger at him. “I wanna hear how Enrique is going to get out of this one.”

 

They watch, engrossed as Marcela reveals herself to in fact _not_ be suffering from memory loss—and that she’s been behind the plot to take down her twin sister’s company, claiming that it was all for the two of them—but Enrique is having none of it.

 

_“Te amo, mi amor, porque dudas de mi???”_

_“NO QUIERO VOLVER A VERTE NUNCA MAS!”_

 

Ellen comes in, wiping her hands.

“Hey, you two. Dinner.”

Dean waves his hand.

“Un momento, por favor—“

She whacks him on the head with her towel.

“ _Now_ , boys,” she says, giving them a look.

Dean scowls and he and Bobby share a look.

“Don’t worry, kid. Reruns tomorrow.”

 

 

x

Dean’s birthday is coming up.

 

Castiel wouldn't have even known if Sam hadn't said something—apparently Dean didn't want anyone to 'make a big deal', which was so stupidly typically Dean—but Castiel hopes he'll be able to train him out of that eventually. Because he likes giving gifts, he’s _good_ at giving gifts, and Dean better start like getting them, otherwise they're going to have some awkward holidays. Castiel really tries not to dwell on the fact that he's already envisioning his next Christmas, next birthday, next everything with Dean—and just focuses on finding the perfect present. They’ve already got his surprise set up—they’re all going to go out. It was lucky, really, they managed to find the perfect weekend for it—Dean has the day off, Castiel will have a week left before his audition, and Sam will finally be done with the LSATs. So Dean will just think they’re meeting up at the Roadhouse, and that’s when they’ll spring a party on him.

Dean’s going to be so pissed. It's going to be awesome.

 

  
Castiel finally figures it out—Dean likes to mix his own music for his routines, and he never passes up the opportunity to complain about his shitty free program he downloaded from some sketchy website, the one he uses now. So Castiel gets him the actual real deal, the kind of program the professionals use. A little pricey, but Castiel doesn't mind. He's got his Christmas money from his mom and random far away relatives who don't know him well enough to send him an actual gift, so he can splurge a bit.

And then comes the pièce de résistance. He makes him a fucking pie.

  
He sweats all day over the damn thing because unfortunately he can't make it fresh—and he sticks it in the freezer, exhausted and covered in flour. He’ll have to bake it later, when it’s closer to the actual day, but this was the only solid block of time he has to work on it. So frozen will have to do. Castiel knows he can't cook for shit, and it's probably going to taste just about as good—but hey, it's the thought that counts right?

  
Castiel snorts, turning in the faucet to wash his hands. When did he become such a fucking sap?

 

x

 

**Mom:**

>> _Castiel, I need to speak with you._

>> _Castiel, please answer your phone. I know you have it on you 24/7._

 

 

x

**Sent:**

>> _where you at?_

 

**Meg:**

<< _im in studio c_

<< _it smells rank in here dude_

<< _like old feet_

 

**Sent:**

>> _be right there in parking lot_

 

 

x

 

Castiel bends, extending his leg into a developpé, landing and twisting over his shoulder, running to meet Meg. She reaches out and he grabs her for the lift, raising her over his head—

He staggers under her weight and they quickly fall out of it, landing awkwardly. Castiel puts his hands on his hips, breathing hard.

“That part’s still not working,” he says, shaking his head.

Meg chews at her lip, thinking it over.

“Okay, so how about extension, out to six, then turn? That’ll fill the couple extra counts I think.”

“Yeah—let’s try it.”

 

It still doesn’t work. They haven’t got that kink figured out by the time their studio time is up, and Castiel slides to the floor, sighing in frustration.

“Ugh.”

He spreads his legs out and flops to his arms, attempting some semblance of stretching. The studio floor is cool on his forehead, and he huffs out a breath, trying to forget his anxiety.

He’s been meeting with Meg pretty much every other day to practice their routine. The in-house audition was set for the end of January. Castiel’s slightly terrified.

 

“Hey.”

 

He looks up wearily.

Meg pulls on her sweater, raising an eyebrow.

“You know you’re gonna get this right?”

He pushes himself up to his elbows, sighing.

“Shut up.”

“No, you shut up.” She crouches beside him, her lips pursed. “Stop doubting yourself, okay? That whole mopey puppy dog eyes blah blah might be cute for Winchester, but this is a done deal.”

Castiel squints.

“And how is it a done deal?”

She sits cross-legged in front of him.

“This is what you’re good at, what you want, and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, you’re kind of good at getting what you want.” She leans forward. “So. It’s going to kick ass. Alright?”

Castiel huffs out a laugh.

“Alright.”

 

The door opens behind them, and Castiel looks up.

“Mom?”

 

Naomi doesn’t smile.

“I texted you several times. You didn’t respond.”

 

Her eyes flick to Meg, who quickly gets the picture, standing up.

“I’m just going to—excuse me.”

 

She slips out the door, leaving them alone. Castiel stands too, frowning.

“What is it?”

Naomi is in her dance outfit today, she must have been teaching a ballet class earlier.

“I’ll be giving you instructions from now on,” she says, without any preamble.

Castiel blinks.

“What?”

 

Naomi is impassive.

“I was watching from outside. It’s good, but far too risqué. I know what the teachers like, what the professional world wants. I’ll help you.”

Castiel slowly shakes his head.

“Mom…I don’t think—“

“Castiel, may I remind you it is by my grace that you are here?”

Castiel stops, staring at her.

“What?” He breathes. Naomi clasps her hands, speaking coldly.

“I let you transfer out of ballet. I could have said no.”

 

He glares at her, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Is she fucking _blackmailing_ him?

 

“Don’t give me that look,” she says icily. “This is what we’ve wanted for a very long time. I’m not going to let you fail.”

“Mom—“

“I am much more experienced than you, I know these people, Castiel, how they operate.” She turns her nose up, sniffing slightly. “I thought you’d appreciate the offer.”

Castiel grits his teeth. He wants this so badly, so badly it terrifies him—and honestly, knows he really does owe a lot to his mom, but he wants that to be because of his own free will, of his own volition. He wants to feel like he owes her on his own terms, not because she’s guilting him into something.

 

“I do, but—“

“Then, I’ll see you tomorrow night,” she says, business over, heading towards the door. “Alastair will make sure we’re not disturbed.”

 

She closes the door smartly behind him.

 

Castiel stares at it blindly, his fists clenched.

 

Meg pushes herself off the wall when he bangs out the door, going wide-eyed at his expression.

“Whoa, you okay?”

“No,” he mutters. “I gotta go.”

 

 

x

 

**Meg:**

>> _cas_

>> _cassssssasss_

>> _naomi told me to come tomorrow at seven is that what this is about_

>> _alright go ahead and sulk. When you’re done being a dick let me know_

 

 

 

**Dean:**

>> _almost to your apartment_

>> _you home yet_

>> _work kicked my ass I need fooood_

>> _im thinking pizza_

 

 

x

Castiel heads straight for the vodka when he gets home.

 

He fucking knew it—no way she’d ever let him do this on his own, of course she was just _waiting_ , biding her time to spring this shit on him—

He takes a pull straight from the bottle, nearly choking at the taste.

 

Castiel doesn’t know what it is. Just he and his mom have _never_ been on the same page. One day it’s totally fine, they’re coexisting peacefully, sometimes even enjoying their time together—and it actually feels like it’s supposed to feel, to be someone’s son. Then one wrong word, one comment, one remark, and it all goes south—she’ll turn an innocent statement into a lecture, she takes offense at something that was supposed to be a joke, because even after all these years, she still can’t tell the difference—and then they’re at each other’s throats.

It gave him whiplash growing up, and he’s still not sure he’ll ever get over it. Even now, with Dean—Dean is so good to him, so nice and kind and treats him right—he’s a goddamn downright gentleman, as completely ridiculous as that sounds—so Castiel is just waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

He takes another drink, his eyes stinging.

 

x

 

Dean knocks, but there’s no answer. There’s the muted sound of music from the other side of the door, so he hesitates, but then tries the handle.

It’s unlocked. He steps inside, the gentle blues song washing over him.

 

_These arms of mine_

_They are lonely_

_Lonely and feeling blue_

“Cas?”

 

He shuts the door behind him, and walks past the kitchen into the main room, stopping when he takes in the scene.

Cas is spinning lazily in front of the stereo, a beer bottle in his hand.

He’s drunk.

“Whoa—Cas—“

 

_And if you_

_Would let them hold you_

_Oh, how grateful I will be_

 

Dean moves forward quickly, catching his wrist.

“What happened?”

Cas looks around, like he’s just realized Dean’s there.

“Dean,” he slurs, drooping forward, tucking his head in his neck.

“Hey,” he whispers.

Dean nearly staggers under Cas’s weight, trying to support him.

“Hey,” he says shakily. “Have you eaten today?”

“Fucking—“

Cas sucks in a sharp breath, his head shaking slightly.

“Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles.

Dean swallows.

He knows he isn’t exactly the poster boy for responsible drinking, but he doesn’t like seeing Cas like this.

 

Cas suddenly reaches for his pants, tugging at his belt.

“Let me blow you,” he whispers.

Dean grabs his wrist.

“Cas—no.”

Cas doesn’t listen.

“Been thinking about it all day,” he murmurs, starting to kiss Dean’s neck, rubbing up against him. “Thinking about getting my lips around that pretty pink cock of yours.”

Dean shudders.

“Jesus Christ, Cas.”

Cas smells like sweat and vodka and Dean feels almost dizzy. But still he manages to get his hands on Cas’s shoulder, pushing him back a little.

“Cas, seriously,” he stutters out. “You’re drunk.”

Cas grabs Dean’s wrists and twists them around, pulling their bodies flush.

“Dean Winchester, don’t make me tie you to the bed,” he growls, his voice low.

Dean swallows. Shit.

 

Cas smiles, knowing he’s won. He kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth, softly, just once, before sinking to his knees.

Dean backs up until he hits the couch and falls into it, hissing, and he’s coming in an embarrassingly short time, Cas practically purring as he wipes his mouth and climbs into his lap, grinding lazily against him. Dean clings to him, blinking the stars from his eyes. Cas bites at his ear, humming along to the music. Dean strokes a hand down his back.

“Cas,” he murmurs. “Are you okay?”

And just like that, it’s like a switch is flipped.

 

Cas’s face hardens and he gets off him, suddenly pissed.

“Wish people would stop fucking asking me that.”

He bends over the sink running the water and rinsing his mouth out, spitting down the drain. Dean watches him, wordless.

 

Cas turns, wiping his lips, his eyes rimmed with red.

 

“I’m going to take a shower,” he mutters, and stalks into the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Dean just sits there for a moment, not sure what to do. For all intents and purposes, this was their first fight, and Dean didn’t even do anything.

He stands slowly, then starts to clean up, collecting the beer bottles from the floor and counter, dumping them in a bag. He finds some leftovers and heats them up, guiltily eating, eyeing the door. He doesn’t know if Cas wants food, if he should go in and ask—he’s just trying to give him some space right now.

 

It’s nearly midnight when Dean finally gathers up the courage to try the door. He knocks quietly.

“Cas?”

 

He opens it, poking his head in. The light from the bathroom is on, but the rest is dark, and he can see Cas’s form on the bed, hunched over on his side.

And the sound of hiccupped, stuttered breathing. Dean’s heart drops.

“Shit, Cas,” he whispers.

 

He shucks his jacket, quickly getting into bed, curling around him. Cas doesn’t resist him, letting Dean pull him into his arms.

He just waits, feeling Cas’s back heave with his labored breath, and tries to comfort him as best he can.

 

“You know, she had to quit, when she had me.”

Dean goes still. He runs a hand over Cas’s arm, just listening.

“She was a dancer, too, when she got pregnant,” Cas whispers. “And she had to quit, at the height of her days. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for that.”

“Cas, c’mon,” Dean says, unable to stop himself. “That’s messed up.”

“It’s the truth,” Cas chokes out.

 

Dean can’t see Cas’s face, but he’s not sure he wants to. He doesn’t know if he could handle seeing the pain in his eyes.

“Soo-soon as I turned 18, I moved out. So I don’t have to be a burden,” Cas mutters, a bitter laugh tacked on the end of it.

Dean closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes.

“I _hated_ living there,” Cas whispers. “Hated it. Everything I did—you’re going to wear that, you’re going to eat that, you’re with _them_ again…”

Dean tucks his face in between Cas’s shoulders, one hand finding his.

“I…started changing myself, you know? Just to-to avoid _arguments_.”

He takes a great shuddering breath.

“She—she seems personally offended, that I’m not like her—and it's like she’s actively punishing me for that—“

“Cas—“

Castiel rolls over, watery blue eyes meeting his.

“She’s the one person who’s supposed to love me unconditionally,” he whispers. “If she doesn’t, why would anyone else?”

 

Dean doesn’t move. Cas collapses back onto the pillow, taking deep breaths.

They lie there in silence for a few minutes, Cas calming slightly. Dean thinks he might have fallen asleep.

“I just thought…”

 

Dean looks up. Cas’s eyes on are his.

“If I put my soul on my skin for the world to see…maybe…”

He swallows.

“Maybe she’d finally see, too.”

 

 

His eyes slide back closed, and his hand eventually goes limp in Dean’s.

Dean listens to him breathe, unsteady and shaky.

He’s never been good at advice, or family shit at all—hell, the Winchesters aren’t exactly the Partridge family, but that doesn’t mean Cas’s pain means less.  
  
  
John drank himself to death before Sam was out of high school, but Dean can only imagine what it would’ve been like. John would never have accepted him. Only after he was gone was when Dean got brave enough to enter the street competitions—just to earn a few dollars, bumping up his hours at the garage, putting off college, just to keep Sammy fed. Once Sam got the scholarship for college, it was Sam who pushed Dean to apply for one of his own at Alas. Never in a million years did he dream he’d actually get it. And then meet someone like Cas.

 

Dean watches him for a while, stroking through his hair, wishing he knew how to make it better.

 

x

 

“So…”

Dean doesn’t exactly know how to breach it, doesn’t know if he wants to, but he can’t just pretend it didn’t happen.

“We gonna talk about what happened yesterday?” He asks quietly.

Cas frowns.

“Talk about what?”

Dean stares at him.

Cas heads off to the bedroom to get dressed, coffee mug in hand.

 

Dean’s left alone in the kitchen, staring at the wall.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [Old Thing Back](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sb3XfrCtjVU) by The Notorious BIG feat. Ja Rule (Matoma Remix)  
> [Arsonist's Lullabye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnt2aHn0waA) by Hozier

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Dean leans his elbows on the barre, grinning down at him.

“Looking good out there.”

Cas smirks, tugging off his shoes.

“Dean Winchester, are you flirting with me?”

“Painfully obvious, huh?”

 

Cas leans back against the mirror, smiling lazily up at him.

“Your seduction skills do leave something to be desired.”

Dean snorts, and pokes him with his foot.

“Seriously, Cas. That was awesome.”

Cas shifts, running a hand through his sweaty hair.

“Noticed you wimped out on the final turn."

Dean shrugs.

"Ain't my thing man. I can't do all that technical shit."

"You shouldn't sell yourself short."

Cas throws his shoes in his bag, grabbing his foot to knead out a kink.

"That routine with Sam? There were some complicated moves in there."

Dean snorts, flopping down next to him.

 

He sticks his hands in his pockets, the scratchy corner of Cas’s bag bumping his thigh.

"It was just messing around, really."

“Too bad Sam isn’t a student. It’s good enough to submit for consideration.”

Dean scratches his head.

"Shit, yeah. Big day comin' up."

He smiles at Cas.

"You nervous?"

Cas shrugs, picking at a callus on his heel.

 

Dean swallows. He had been trying to give Cas some space really, ever since that night. He learned you can’t push these kind of things, if growing up with king-of-the-silent-treatment-teenage-Sam had taught him anything. But it’s starting to grate on him. Why won’t Cas just talk to him?

 

Tessa gathers up her things, smiling at the two of them as she walks out. Dean looks up, and realizes they’re the only ones left in the studio. And no one’s busting down the door or kicking them out, so it must be free now.

And that gives him an idea.

 

“C’mon.”

He reaches out, grabbing Cas’s hand. Cas elbows him.

“Dean…” he says chastisingly, looking around. Cas’s rule is no PDA at school, but Dean doesn’t care. There’s no one around.

He tugs at the strap of Cas’s bag, moving close enough that his breath tickles Cas’s neck.

“Castiel,” he coos. “Will you dance with me?”

Cas scoffs, but still, his hand curls into the front of Dean’s shirt.

“If you make me pop a boner in these dance pants, I’m going to kill you,” he mutters.

Dean smirks.

“Don’t tempt me.”

 

But Dean relents, scooting back, tugging on Cas’s hands to pull him up.

“It’ll be fun. Promise.”

 

Cas shakes his head a little, but he’s smiling, watching as Dean moves over to the stereo, sliding his phone out of his pocket. He hooks it up, and Cas crosses his arms.

“What are we supposed to do?”

Dean gives him a look.

“It’s called improvising, Cas.”

He presses play, and moves back to Cas’s side, nudging him.

“Let’s see what you got.”

 

The beat fades in, starting slowly, and Dean wiggles his hips, beckoning him with a finger.

"Come on, Novak. You know you want to."

 

_What you wanna do?_

_I got that old thing back_

_What you wanna see? Baby sing, relax and feel him_

 

Cas keeps his arms tightly crossed, but he’s biting his lip, fighting the urge to laugh. Dean shimmies up to Cas, then knocks him with his hip. He looks completely ridiculous and he knows it—but no one is around to see, and it's putting a smile on Cas's face, tugging at the corner of his lips, so embarrassment be damned. He wants to dance with Cas. 

 

_I love it when they call me Big Poppa_

_I only smoke blunts if they rolled propa_

_Look, I gotcha caught up with the drunk flow_

 

"I thought you didn't listen to anything besides Zeppelin and Metallica."

Dean scoffs, ignoring him. He pulls a couple dumb turns, twisting his feet.

"I can't branch out?"

"This coming from a self proclaimed music fossil."

"Cas, shut up and get over here."

 

_All I do is separate the game from the truth_

_Big bang boots from the Bronx to Bolivia_

_Getting physical like Oliva Newt_

Cas rolls his eyes, but goes to stand next to him. He slowly starts to copy him, following along and stepping in time to the beat. Before they know it, they're laughing and goofing off, trying to one up the other and pulling ridiculous moves.

 

 _You sayin_ _I got my swagger back_  
_I’m lookin like bitch, my swagger never left_

 

"Are you going to put on Mickey and Silvia?"

 

Dean falls out of his spin.

"Who?"

Cas laughs.

"Oh, so who's the clueless one now?"

 

_What you wanna do?_

_I got that old thing back_

 

Dean rolls his eyes, going back to dancing, watching himself critically in the mirror. Castiel smirks, grabbing up Dean’s cap from where it’s sitting on his bag. He props it jauntily on his head, turning around with a little flourish.

“How do I look?”

Dean turns around and his expression pinches, before he laughs.

“You look like an idiot.”

“Nah. I think you’re jealous.”

“Cas. Give it back.”

“Make me.”

Dean scowls, making a grab for it. Castiel ducks out of the way, and turns, beckoning a finger.

“You’re an asshole.”

Castiel just grins. Dean sighs in exasperation.

“Babe. C’mon.”

 

Castiel blinks.

“Did you just call me babe?”

Dean flushes, his cheeks coloring with embarrassment.

“No,” he stammers.

“You totally did,” Cas says, a wide grin starting to spread across his face.

He backs Dean up against the mirror, putting his hands on the barre to box Dean in. Dean snatches his hat back, but Castiel doesn’t care. He hovers his lips over Dean’s, just barely touching.

“I like it,” he whispers.

Dean’s hands come to settle on his hips. He’s still red, but he’s smirking.

Castiel kisses him, lazy and slow, and when they pull back, Dean’s eyes are closed, his breath coming a little faster.

Castiel grins, and puts his hands on Dean's chest, and they sway back and forth, barely moving.

 

 

"Can I see your dance?" Dean asks softly.

 

Castiel stills.

"What?"

"The one you're submitting. I've never seen it."

Castiel blinks at him for a moment, then gives an awkward laugh.

"Dean, Meg's not exactly here."

"So?"

"And I don't have the edited music, you'll have no idea what it's supposed to actually look like—"

"I don't care."

 

Dean takes his hands, pulling him in.

"Please?"

Castiel looks at him for a minute, his blue eyes searching. Then he sighs.

"Fine."

He starts to move out towards the middle of the room, stretching his arms.

"But I'm seriously considering kicking your ass."

 

Castiel pauses for a minute, then pulls up the music on his phone. He takes his position, and then he starts.

 

Dean watches, absolutely silent. It's a song he doesn't know, but it's beautiful—dark and deep—pulsing with emotion. There are some awkward parts where Cas waits for the extra counts, or the partner work with Meg—but for the most part, it seems like it's his own solo, and Dean's own private show.

 

Which is why when he finishes, Dean feels strangely disappointed.

           

 

 

Castiel finishes the final turn and lands heavily, breathing hard.

 

That felt like shit. He didn't see it, but he's sure it looked like shit too. And from the expression on Dean's face, he's probably not wrong.

He curses internally. _Fuck Naomi._

 

It hadn’t felt right, at all—not since she started these 'private rehearsals.'

She had been going over the routine with him and Meg nearly every other day—and Castiel had been basically powerless to refuse. They’re keeping a tight lid on it—he can't even tell Dean, for fear of rumors of favoritism getting out, or even worse, what it really is: nepotism. But it's frustrating as hell—Naomi won't take no for an answer and has corrected nearly every move, up to the point where Castiel doesn't feel like it's his dance anymore.

But fuck him, the performance for the panel of teachers who will select the routine is next Friday. He knows he's got one, Anna has a solo, and Michael is submitting a samba. He's not sure who else is dancing. But it's seriously freaking him out.

 

Castiel puts his hands on his hips, not meeting Dean’s eyes.

"What."

 

Dean is quiet for a moment.

"I dunno, it just—"

He chews his lip, trying to find the right words.

"It feels like I'm watching someone else dance," he says finally, and Castiel looks up at him, shocked.

"C'mon, man."

 

Dean straightens, his tone brutally honest.

"Do what you want. Dance isn’t all about rules. If anything, it’s about breaking them."

 

Castiel swallows, a sudden strange burning in his throat. Then he slowly nods.

"Okay."

 

 

He turns, setting up the music and taking position again.

 

He starts off kneeling, waiting for his cue, his heartbeat sounding unusually loud in his ears.

 

_When I was a child, I heard voices_

_Some would sing and some would scream_

 

 

He drags a hand through his hair, tipping his head back, exhaling tension. His head rolls back, as he looks to the ceiling, his eyes closing, his shoulders slumping with the rest of him as he waits.

 

_You soon find you have few choices_

_I learned the voices died with me_

 

He pushes forward, his left leg bent, right leg extended with a sweeping arm—

He reaches up—five, six, seven, eight, reaching up to the heavens, his fingers grasping at nothing—

And he falls back, briefly lying flat before he arcs his back, curving up against the flat surface beneath him, sucking in a breath.

 

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

_Don’t you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep ‘em on a leash_

 

He closes his eyes, feels the soft slide of the studio floor beneath him, the soft shift of his muscles, and he tightens his jaw—thinking—

He curls into his core, hunching over into a tight ball.

 

_When I was a man I thought it ended_

_When I knew love’s perfect ache_

 

Then up, out and slow bend back—tucking his right foot behind his left, ready to go into the turn.

 

_But my peace has always depended_

_On all the ashes in my wake_

 

His hands go down, plant against the floor, to send him up—up into a gentle jéte.

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

 

 

He lands out of it, coming to a slow stop, the music reverberating through his bones.

 

_Don’t you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep ‘em on a leash_

 

 

His hands spread out, his mouth opening slightly, he curves back, his heart pounding.

 

It's the best he could do, with no partner, trying to get back to the original soul of what he wanted to express. He clears his throat, looking up nervously. 

Dean's face is radiant.

 

"Now that’s something I'd pay to see."

 

 

Dean slips his hands to his waist and Castiel meets him in the middle, smiling into Dean’s mouth. Dean kisses him unhurriedly, bringing one hand to his cheeks. He kisses him like he means it, like Castiel is worth this, and it's not trying to lead anywhere else. Dean is kissing him simply because he wants to.

 

Someone opens the door, and they break apart, Dean hastily moving towards the mirror and doing a couple moves, the tips of his ears red.

 

Castiel moves back, wiping his mouth as the other hand tries to drag his hair back into place. The door opens all the way, and Castiel's stomach drops.

 

"Castiel."

 

Naomi’s eyes briefly slide to Dean, before focusing back on him.

"I'd like to speak with you. In the hall, please."

Castiel swallows.

"Yeah, okay."

 

He briefly turns to Dean. He glances at him, raising an eyebrow.

_Everything okay?_

Castiel nods, waving a hand slightly.

_Be right back._

 

He walks over to where Naomi is holding open the door expectantly, and he steps into the hall. She smartly shuts the door with a sharp click, before turning to him.

"We have decided to hold the auditions tomorrow night."

 

Castiel's stomach drops.

"What?"

"Tomorrow," Naomi repeats thinly. "Tessa had a conflict come up, and it's the only other night that worked for everyone. Hester will be on the panel, Rachel as well. Crowley too, but he's easily taken care of."

Castiel is barely listening.

_Tomorrow? Shit, that’s when they were going to go out for Dean’s birthday, but fuck, he needs to get some last minute practice in, maybe it wouldn’t take too long, he could probably still make it, and Meg, crap—he has to text her—_

 

"Castiel, are you listening to me?"

Castiel looks up sharply, swallowing.

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Well, then, I'll make sure there's a studio reserved for you. So we can work out the final kinks."

Castiel takes a deep breath.

"Naomi—Mom—I—I think Meg and I should practice alone."

She looks at him, narrowing her eyes.

"Why?"

The lie flows smoothly.

"It's the day of—you'll be busy setting everything up, and it would look suspicious if anyone saw us...besides, we're basically done, right? Meg and I can handle it."

He waits uncomfortably as she mulls it over. Finally, she nods.

"Fine."

She glances towards the door.

"But that doesn't mean we can't start now. Tell your friend you have to go."

"But—"

"Now, Castiel. I'll be in studio B."

She turns on her heel and marches away. Castiel curses.

 

x

“What’s up?”

“Sorry, I…”

Cas swallows.

“Forms or something I need to sign. I gotta, um—yeah. I’ll text you later.”

Dean blinks.

“Um. Yeah. Okay,” he says, disappointment tinging his voice.

Cas reaches out and looks like he might kiss him, but at the last second draws back, glancing over his shoulder. Instead he grips his hand briefly.

Then he’s gone and out the door, leaving Dean alone in the studio.

 

x

 

It’s loud and rowdy at the Roadhouse tonight, and Ellen barely has time to give Dean a quick wave over the heads of the crowd before she’s whirling away again. He squeezes past a couple who have abandoned all subtlety and rules of PDA, dodges a particularly tipsy blonde and sinks into the stool opposite Sam, gingerly setting the beers on the table.

"That took way longer than it should have."

Sam snorts.

“Jo keepin’ busy then, huh?”

Dean scans the bar, ruffling his hair.

“Yeah. She said she be right back about half an hour ago.”

“Hmm. Girl’s gotta eat.”

Dean spies the familiar blonde head of hair, swooped up into a messy bun with a pencil sticking through it as she takes an order at one of the tables. Dean smiles, because she’s got her ‘you-are-so-fuckin’-lucky-I-can’t-punch-you-in-public’ face on, and Dean knows that always makes for an entertaining story later on.

"So, Cas isn't coming then?"

Dean's stomach twists.

"Guess not."

He checks his phone, just in case. Nothing.

"I dunno. He just bailed."

And Cas has been acting weird, is what he doesn't add.

 

 

They’ve been not-quite-dating for a month, and it's been good, really good. Sam loves Cas, and (mostly) refrains from teasing him about keeping it down at night—

but Dean's still kind of antsy about it. He knows he’s not messing around with anybody else, but they never really set those boundaries, y'know? And shit—Cas is hot—Cas is hot and he's completely funny and smart and seeing him dance is nothing short of a religious experience, only maybe compared to sex with Cas, and Dean's always been an asshole when it comes to jealousy. Back in high school he fucking punched out Ann Marie’s ex-boyfriend for even talking to her, and she immediately broke up with him. He's matured a little bit since then, and has pulled his head out of his ass (he hopes) but he wonders if he should ask Cas. Have ‘the talk’. The fucking talk.

 

Dean knows he falls too hard, too fast, he always has. 'Cause at heart, he knows he's a hopeless romantic, no matter how much he whines and grumbles about the sappy romcoms Charlie brings over to movie night. But the fact that Cas is pulling this kind of shit is really starting to bug him. He could handle the mysterious running off, because the guy had to rehearse, after all—but there's a little itch starting at the back of his mind, and Dean doesn't know how to keep it quiet.

 

"Well. Anyway."

 

Dean lifts his beer.

"Here's to Sam, who's finally done with the LSATs, and can start being a normal person again."

 

Sam gives him bitchface #187, but clinks his glass with him anyway.

“So glad to be done with it. And I won't get my results for a while, so I can postpone the freak out."

Dean grins.

They’ve both been so busy, even though they live together, Dean feels like he hasn’t seen his little brother in weeks.

 

 

x

 

All of them sit outside the room as the teachers deliberate. Castiel is chewing at his thumb. Michael is standing in the corner, his hands clasped behind his back. Anna has put her earbuds in and is flipping through a paperback, her face calm. Meg is sitting next to Castiel, jiggling her foot. She shoots him looks every so often.

They did well. It felt good, but Castiel has no idea. Maybe it wasn't what they wanted. He had reworked it with Meg back to where it felt like his choreography again, and he hadn’t dared look at his mother's face after they finished.

 

The door opens, and Castiel stands, his heart in his throat. Michael turns around, and Anna slowly removes her headphones.

"I want to thank you all for your submissions,"

Naomi says, her expression unreadable. "Each routine was excellent."

Castiel realizes his hands are sweating. Meg reaches out and squeezes his arm.

"But we have decided to select Castiel and Meg's routine to submit to the National Dance Company's competition."

 

Castiel feels a flood of emotion wash over him, relief, excitement, a pang of fear—but strangely, there's one thought that floats to the front of his mind.

_I have to tell Dean._

 

Anna smiles and pats him on the arm, no venom in her voice.

"Congratulations, Cas," she says warmly. "You deserve it."

 

Only Michael is frozen, eyes moving back and forth between them.

 

"Why?" He asks flatly.

Naomi's eyes turn cold.

"Why what?"

"Why Novak's routine? What were the factors in choosing his? Can you enlighten me to that, please?"

Naomi doesn't miss a beat, speaking dismissively.

"Contemporary is much more popular and successful in these types of competitions, Michael. Surely you understand that."

"But—"

"Your routine was exceptional, but it was ballroom," Naomi says crisply. "The teachers thought, and I agree, that Castiel has a better chance. And it will bring more recognition and attention to our school, which could help you in the long run. This was not a rash decision. I suggest you respect it."

She turns away without giving him a chance to respond, speaking to Meg and Castiel.

"You will both need to fill out some paperwork, so I hope you don't have any plans for the next hour or so."

Castiel's fingers twitch. He really hopes he can get to the Roadhouse in time.

 

Meg goes after Naomi, but Castiel stops to gather up his things.

"Well, hope you're prepared for it, Novak."

He looks up at Michael's sneering face.

"It does help when you got Mommy dearest pushing you along."

Castiel shoulders his bag, stepping into Naomi's office.

"Nobody like a sore loser, Michael," he says coldly. Then he slams the door in his face.

  
x

 

They talk about his classes, a little bit about Dean's, even though there's not much to tell. Usually Alas put on a show every semester, but the NDC show is replacing the one in the spring, so most of Dean's classes are pretty relaxed. Nobody freaking out about deadlines or costumes or spacing or any of that shit. He knows Cas has been super stressed about it though.

Dean sighs. He should cut Cas some slack.

 

Sam taps the table.

“Be right back.”

He smiles and shoves back from the table, his gangly height making it impossible for him to blend into the crowd as he fights his way towards the bathroom in the back.

Dean tosses back the rest of his beer, scowling when he realizes he’s going to have to wait on Sam for a refill. This place is packed with so many people he doesn’t dare leave the table because no doubt it would get snatched up by some douchebag as soon as he stood up.

The beer is humming through him, a light buzz just under his skin. And after only one.

Shit. He probably should have eaten more today.

Well, when Sam gets back he’ll bully him into getting some food, maybe even going halfsies on it. Even though Sam could eat an entire farm and still ask for seconds.

Dean rubs his forehead, mindlessly running his finger over the rim of the glass, when a voice behind him makes him pause.

 

“—knew Novak was going to get chosen."

Dean goes still.

“Motherfucker’s got every single teacher sitting in his pocket, of course. The Golden Boy, they call him…”

Dean swallows. There are a lot of Novaks in the world. Pretty common last name, really. He doesn’t recognize the voice, and he doesn’t dare turn around.

“No attention to real talent of course, but it is helpful when you’ve got a relative in high places,” the voice says, dripping with sarcasm. “They think they're so subtle, but everyone knows Naomi makes sure her son gets the best of the best."

Dean blinks. _Naomi—?_

The voice comes again, cold and bitter.

"All hail King Castiel Novak.”

Dean deliberates for a minute. Then he stands.

 

He pushes back from his table, turning to the group behind him.

“What’d you say?”

The cruel laughter quickly dies away, and Dean can feel them staring. But he only has eyes for the guy sitting dead center, obviously the leader.

He stares at Dean, those steel-blue eyes boring into his.

“All hail,” he whispers, standing slowly. “Our new reigning king.” He combs his slick black hair back into place, curling his lip. “And who the fuck are you?”

“None of your damn business,” Dean retorts. He recognizes the kid now, he’s seen him skulking around Cas’s classrooms and backstage, and he’s obviously got some kind of shit he needs to air—

“Just wondering why you’re so jealous.”

The guy’s eyes flash, his face hardening.

“And who are you? Some righteous knight defending dear Castiel’s honor?”

“Michael,” one of his friends warns, pulling at his sleeve. Michael ignores them.

“Or wait. Don’t tell me.”

His smile twists, turning into almost a leer, and Dean’s stomach clenches.

“You’re the latest conquest,” he sneers, his voice almost a purr. “Novak’s new boy toy.”

Dean pauses.

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

People are staring now, the nearest of the raucous crowd frozen as they watch as the two men in front of them.

“Oh, that’s just sad.” Michael spreads his arms, turning to their audience. “Pretty boy thinks he's got himself a boyfriend."

Dean glares at him.

“Excuse me?"

“Look, I've seen it before and I've seen it again. He finds someone to string along for a while, his poetic muse, or whatever bullshit they're calling it nowadays..." He looks Dean up and down, his tone nothing but disdain. "Believe me, kid. You're an experiment. Maybe fiftieth? Sixtieth? He fucked his way through everyone in the ballet department and now he’s stooping to the gutter."

 

Dean doesn't mean to do it. 

 

He shoves him, just a little too hard, and Michael falls back, nearly knocking over the table. He quickly recovers and turns, raising his fist.

Michael gets a good hit in, connecting with Dean's mouth and sending a piercing pain through his jaw. Dean snaps and retaliates, lashing out. 

Hands are grabbing at him, people are shouting—

Michael falls back into his seat, holding his bloody nose, staring at him murderously.

 

Dean shrugs the hands off him, growling a little at the people nearest him. Everyone is staring, frozen. Ellen is standing behind the bar, shotgun in her hands, gaping at him. He can see Jo staring at him too, but even worse is when he sees Sam beside her, his mouth open.

Michael slowly looks at his hand, then up to Dean.

"Hit a sore spot, perhaps?" He sneers thickly, his words clogged by the blood matting his face.

 

Dean stares at him, a horrible dark feeling taking root in his gut. He stumbles backwards, and the crowd parts for him like a sea, everyone silent and staring. Dean can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

He throws himself out the door and into his car, keys fumbling for the ignition until the familiar roar of his baby drowns out the pounding in his head, and he tears away into the dark night.

 

x 

 

He doesn’t really remember stopping, or talking, or even functioning at all—but suddenly he’s in the tunnel, the tunnel that calls back memories of skipping stones and shouting themselves hoarse to test the echo, a heavy case of beer in his hands. He practically throws it down, ripping at the cardboard.

The first beer barely lasts a minute. The second too, but by the third, he’s spinning a bit, and he falls gracelessly onto his ass, hiccupping weakly.

He tips his head back and empties the bottle, letting it fall away. It rolls away, into a cluster of weeds a couple feet from him, and comes to a halt, its echo fading into silence.

Dean curls his hand into a fist. His knuckles are steadily dripping blood, but he doesn’t look.

He sucks in deep breaths. The concrete is hard and solid against his back.

Then he’s up and throwing himself forward, curling a hand around the cold glass neck of the bottle.

He turns and hurls it against the wall with a yell, his soul crowing with a vicious sort of satisfaction when it smashes, sending glass flying everywhere.

He falls back against the concrete tunnel behind him, his chest heaving.

 

His phone starts buzzing in his pocket for the fifth time, vibrating incessantly. Dean has half a mind to throw it, too.

He doesn’t know what to think, his head is raging nothing makes sense he’s just—

He throws the rest of his empty bottles until he’s surrounded by broken glass, and starts drinking more, even though the cheap beer stings against the split in his lip.

His phones starts buzzing again, and God help him, he answers it.

 

"What?" He snarls.

"Dean?"

Dean thinks his lungs collapse.

It’s Cas. Fucking Cas.

"Cas," he breathes.

"Where are you? I have to tell you something," comes Cas's excited voice, sounding tinny over the speaker.

And Dean for some reason, tells him.

 

 

x

 

Dean hangs up, not sure if that actually just happened or not. Why the fuck did he do that? He can't see Cas right now, he can't see him like this, what is wrong with him—

 

 

He lolls back, gulping down the frigid night air. It stings his lungs and makes his eyes water, and he curls his knees up close to his chest. His fingers cling loosely to the bottle, his seventh—eighth?

_Fiftieth—_

He throws that one too, screaming as it shatters, his own voice and the glass shards echoing loudly around him, stabbing into his soul.

Then he freezes.

Because there’s someone at the end of the tunnel.

Dean can’t see their face, whoever it is. He seems fixated on Dean though, slowly walking towards him, footsteps echoing against the grey concrete.

The guy passes through a bar of light, and Dean slumps back, his ears filled with a dull buzzing.

Fuck, he thinks. Godammit—

Cas’s footsteps stop, and Dean can’t look up. He can’t move.

 

The smile melts from Castiel's face as he takes in the scene. He saw the Impala haphazardly parked at the entrance of the tunnel, which should have been a warning sign, but this is—

 

 

Dean hears Cas curse, then he’s kneeling, reaching for his battered hand.

“What happened?” He whispers.

Dean is numb. He’s vaguely aware of Cas’s fingers running gently over the cut on his cheek, looking over his hands. He’s probably bleeding all over him.

Dean wants to laugh.

Cas quietly takes a handkerchief from his pocket and starts to wind it around Dean’s hand. They're silent.

 

 

 

 

As soon as he's finished, Dean yanks his hand away, standing clumsily. Cas is still.

“Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean just snorts and throws another bottle.

“Will you fucking talk to me?”

Dean glares at the wall. His head is pounding.

Cas quietly takes out his phone.

“I’m going to call Sam and have him pick you up,” he says.

“Fuck you, Cas.”

Cas looks up.

“What?”

Even that look in his eyes, those beautiful blue eyes can’t stop him. Dean’s drunk and the headache is getting stronger, steadily beating in his temple and he can’t hold it back. It’s spilling out of him like bile, every hateful thing, all the rage and insecurity boiling over.

“Or you know what?” Dean hisses. “Fuck him. Fuck Sam.”

Cas stares at him. Dean laughs, almost hysterically.

“Oh, so is that it? You had one Winchester now you want the other?”

He jabs the bottle at him, brandishing it like a knife.

The expression of shock on Cas’s face flashes with anger. His eyes harden.

“What are you talking about?” He asks, his voice low.

Dean throws it. The glass smashes and echoes all around them.

“How ‘bout Jo?” He looks right into those goddamn eyes, curling his lip. “Charlie? Hey, she doesn’t swing your way, but I bet you can work that silver tongue and get her into bed with you.”

Cas doesn't respond, and for Dean, that just confirms it. He sinks back against the wall, everything in him collapsing.

 

"Sorry, but I'm going to have to call this. I was an idiot. Sorry for being so pathetic."

Cas moves closer, shaking his head.

"Dean, I don't know what you're talking about—"

"You were convincing, I'll give you that. Good acting. I thought you actually cared. But now I know. Just sex. Nothing else."

Castiel goes absolutely still. Something in him shatters, the color draining away from his face, but Dean can’t stop. It’s just coming up, like vomit, bile in his throat, every hurt and insecurity he’s ever had—Lisa used him, Dad used him, for all he knows Sam doesn’t give a shit about him either, just riding on the gravy train—

Why the fuck would this be any different? Nobody cares about Dean Winchester. Nobody. He’s useless. A nice ass and a good night’s fuck. Nothing else. He’s never had anything else to offer.

 

Cas’s throat dips, swallowing heavily in the dim light.

“You’re drunk,” he says shakily.

“Oh oh.”

Dean leers, baring his teeth.

“Gold star, Sherlock,” he sneers out.

He stumbles back to where his jacket is lying, crumpled next to the cardboard box. He rips another beer from the case, quickly twisting off the cap and downing half of it before he can stop to think. He’s painfully aware of Cas’s eyes, burning a hole in his back.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he mutters.

“Dean, what the hell happened,” Cas hushes out. He sounds so desperate, so damn agonized, that for a second Dean doubts himself—the fog in his mind clears and he wonders what the hell he’s doing, he can’t say these things to Cas, he—

Then the memory of Michael’s smug smile comes rushing back, and his heart burns, his jealously roaring red and hot, consuming any last rational thought he might have had.

“Let’s just agree, it was fun while it lasted,” he spits, white knuckles clenched around the bottle.  

“We can both move on to the next warm body, right? That’s your history, after all. Michael made it very clear.”

" _Michael_ —"

Castiel is standing rigid, his outline hazy, framed against the jagged silver moonlight.

"And you believe him?"

Dean glares at him.

"Give me a reason why I shouldn't."

Cas stares down at him.

“That’s what this is about?” He breathes. “That’s what bothers you?”

Dean wants to scream. He wants to yell and grab Cas by his shirt and shake him, shake that calm face into showing any kind of emotion—because no that’s not what fucking bothers him. Cas could’ve slept with everyone on the goddamn planet and Dean wouldn’t care—he just needs to know that it wasn’t just another night, that it wasn’t just another check mark, a name struck off on a list—that it meant as much to Cas as it did to him.

"You think this was—"

Cas cuts off, his face coloring, growing ugly.

"You think I don't care about you?"

"I know you don't," Dean sneers.

"Liar."

 

Dean glares up at him. Cas is still standing in front of him, utterly frozen, shaking his head.

"Then tell me it was just sex for you. I dare you," Cas hisses. "If that's really what it was."

Dean looks up, finding those eyes. He curls his lip.

"It was just sex," he sneers.

 

Everything in Castiel seems to shut down. He goes rigid, his face stone cold, eyes expressionless.

“Sorry to have interrupted your night,” he says coolly, his voice unusually stiff. “I can assure you I won't be bothering you again.”

And with that, he’s gone, disappearing at the concrete mouth of the tunnel. Dean’s left alone, only his beer bottle and pounding headache for company.

“Damn straight,” he mutters. He throws his bottle again. It smashes with a satisfying sound, and Dean slumps against the tunnel wall.

 

 

x

 

Castiel is barely aware of his own body. He just knows that somehow he managed the walk back to his apartment, somehow the key found its way into the lock, and somehow he’s standing in his living room, his chest heaving.

He can see his breath in front of him, hard and short. Not enough money to turn on the heat—but he’d compensated before by sharing warmth with others. Dean had made his apartment warm, he’d made him never want to get out of bed.

Castiel is a ghost, hovering outside his own skin.

Growing up in a dancer’s world had exposed him to a lot of different viewpoints early on, despite Naomi’s attempt to keep a rigid grip on her son’s ‘moral well-being’. He had barely hit puberty when he realized he was checking out the guys in tights just as much as the girls. And yeah, he’s slept with a lot of people. But he’s never been fucking ashamed of it. That’s just how he is. Everyone he gets involved with knows that. A couple nights of fun, nothing else, no strings attached. He never sticks around for long, because he knows, eventually, all things come to an end. And they’ve all been on board with that. He’s always been upfront, letting them know he’s not fucking ‘boyfriend material’.He had that one relationship with Daphne—because hell, he was young and dumb and in love and at one point he thought he might even marry her—

But she broke his heart. Broke his heart like everyone Castiel’s ever cared about, and that was just the last nail in the coffin.

Everyone he loves leaves. It’s just a fact. He’s accepted it, and he moved on.

He put up a wall. A shell of himself. Charming and sweet, just funny and touching enough to get in and get out. Everyone he slept with didn’t care—they just wanted him for a couple fun nights. And Castiel was content with that, for a while. He could handle the cool detachment of the next morning. The ‘hey this was fun, but we both are adults, and it's time to move on.’ It worked. It was fine.

But for the first time in a long time, Dean—Dean made him want to try. He had skidded into his life, grease stained arms and piercing green eyes, and he had struck something within Castiel, something he didn’t even think still existed inside him.

For the first time in years, Castiel wanted to be that person. He wanted to be the first person Dean asked for help when he had a problem. He wanted to wait for his phone call every night, he wanted to find the sunlight in his laugh, he wanted him to be that person he could rely on for advice, he wanted to hold him close before he fell asleep at night, he wanted him to be the highlight of his day, he wanted, he wanted, he _wanted._

He wanted him to be so much more.

 

But if a couple words from a jealous man, drunk and spewing bullshit in a bar was enough to shatter Dean's faith in him—he's clearly not who Castiel thought he was. 

Some part of him hates himself for this—he knows it's the same passive-agressive, unhealthy bullshit he gets into with his mom—playing into the expectation, the first instinct to snarl a retort instead of talk things out. 

And now it's broken. Dean may have taken the first blow, but Castiel was perfectly content to let it shatter. 

 

 

He stands there for a moment, just frozen.

 

He seizes the table and upends it.

 

Everything on it goes flying—the lamp, the books—that horrible porcelain angel Naomi had given him last Christmas—they go flying and hit the wall, smashing in a final sort of way.

Castiel falls back against the wall, trembling.

He stays there for he doesn't know how long, choked sobs clogging his throat.

 

  
Eventually he gets the strength to stand, and he yanks open the freezer to see if he’s got any vodka left.

And sees the pie. The fucking pie.

 

 

He pulls it out and dumps the entire thing in the trash.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean wakes up with a killer hangover.

 

For a second, he just lies there, a weak pain throbbing dully between his eyes, wishing he could just fall back asleep.

Then he remembers what happened last night.

 

Cas. He broke up with Cas.

 

 

He flops for his phone, swiping past all the confused texts from Sam, and dials Cas's number. It rings too many times, then goes to voicemail. Same for the next couple of times.

 

“Cas. Cas pick up. Seriously.”

 

He hangs up, staring weakly at his phone.

 

**Sent:**

>> _cas i gotta talk to you_

 

>> _cas please_

>> _can we talk?_

 

>> _im sorry_

>> _so fucking sorry_

>> _i really need to talk to you. please_

 

Nothing.

 

Dean digs his hands into his forehead, fighting the urge to scream.

 

 

 

 

He calls again. This time it goes straight to voicemail.

 

 

x

 

He pulls into the parking lot of Alas, quickly throwing his car into park and getting out—running for the steps. He’s glad Sam hadn’t been at home, because that is another conversation he’s not really sure he wants to deal with—but right now he has to fix this.

 

He darts through the hallways, not stopping to apologize when he practically pushes people aside, looking for the familiar dark head of hair. He’s not in Hester’s class, he’s not out in the quad—Anna says she hasn’t seen him—and Dean is starting to freak out. He’s contemplating pulling out his phone when he turns the corner for Naomi’s office, and he stops dead.

 

Cas turns and marches in the opposite direction.

 

Dean hastily bolts forward, blocking his path.

“Cas, wait—“

“Get out of my way.”

“No, Cas—will you listen to me?”

Cas stops, but doesn’t say anything. His fist clenches and unclenches. Dean takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t have—fuck. Just—can we talk, please?”

He’s fucking this up and he knows it—he’s never been good at apologizing—Sam was the one who’s all in touch with his feeling and shit—and Dean is absolutely tongue-tied. He musters up his courage.

“Cas—“

“God, I knew this would happen,” Cas mutters. Dean stops mid-sentence.

“What?”

Cas doesn’t look at him. He exhales, sounding bored.

“You’re one of the clingy ones.”

 

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“What?” He whispers again.

“Never a clean break with you fuckups is there?” Cas says poisonously, finally looking at him. There are shadows under his eyes, and he looks thin somehow, hollow, and Dean can’t breathe.

“Cas—don’t—“

No, no this isn’t right, there was no way Michael was right—Dean was drunk and said some stupid shit, but it isn’t actually _true_ …is it?

 

 

“Like you said. It was fun while it lasted," Castiel sneers, parroting his words back to him, his voice simmering with rage and hurt.

He just wants to hurt him. Let him know what it feels like.

So he lashes out, trying to say the shittiest things he can, the things that will come back later and haunt him, driving him to curl up in the bottom of a bottle later tonight.

 

Dean is trembling.

“Was Michael good?” He whispers. “Better than me?”

Cas’s eyes darken rapidly, and he shoves back from him, his voice raw and cutting.

"Fuck you."

 

Cas expertly dips around him and disappears so fast Dean doesn’t even have time to try and stop him.

 

 

Dean aims a kick at the wall and ends up with nothing but a throbbing pain in return.

 

x

 

 

"What the fuck did you do?"

Dean nearly falls backwards over the rail he had been leaning on. He pulls off his headphones, staring at a very pissed-off Meg.

"What the _fuck_ did you do, Winchester?" She snaps again.

Dean blinks, glancing around. Some people have stopped, watching them curiously. He shifts.

"Gonna need a little context here, Meg.”

She snarls.

"I'm going to kill you," she hisses. "What did you do to Cas?"

Dean freezes.

She waits expectantly in front of him, her arms crossed.

"We're not together anymore," he finally says, lamely. He knows it's a horrible answer, because Meg's face hardens even more.

"That sounds like grade-A bullshit," she snaps. "You wanna know why? Because Cas hasn't returned any of my texts, any of my calls—the only reason I know he's not dead is because I went to his apartment and I heard the lock slide when I banged on the door. So I'll ask again—what the fuck did you do??"

 

Dean can't breathe. That can't be true. She's lying.

 

"He's probably just in a drunken stupor somewhere," he mumbles. "Holed up with some chick and forgot about the day—"

He cuts off at the expression on Meg's face.

 

She suddenly grabs his arm.

“Come on.”

Dean sputters.

“Dude, I was supposed to help Ash with stage setup—“

“He can manage without you. I need a rehearsal partner.”

“ _What?”_

"I don't have a partner for the routine I have to do at a national dance competition in less than a month," she snaps. "Consider it atonement."

 

20 minutes later, Dean’s still not sure this is really happening. Meg teaches him literally the entire routine—which mainly involves a lot of her manhandling him into the right position and running the lifts, over and over and over and _over_ , until Meg finally decides they can do it with music. The whole time, she never lost that constipated look of righteous pissed-off hatred, looking like something particularly foul-smelling was under her nose. Or maybe that was just Dean.

The hot studio lights are beating down on him and he’s sweating like a pig, because this shit is _hard_.

 

Meg pushes back from him, setting up the stereo. She pushes play.

Dean’s throat catches.

The last time he heard this song was 5 days ago. Right before everything went to shit. When it was just them, and the studio, and the music.

And then Dean screwed it up.

 

 

He tries not to think as they rehearse, wanting to just focus on the difficulty of the choreography—but it's proving difficult, because every time he lifts Meg, it makes the scrapes on his knuckles sting, the evidence of that night and what he did. 

He’s tired and aching when Meg finally lets him go, dismissing him with an irritated wave of her hand.

 

He collapses into his bed that night, just glad it’s over.

 

x

 

The next morning Dean’s woken by a shrill ringing.

He flops over, fumbling for his phone. It’s a number he doesn’t recognize, and it’s fucking 9 o’clock in the morning. What the hell—

“What?” he says irritably as he answers, fighting to disentangle himself from the blankets.

“Where are you?” A voice snaps.

“What?”

“I need my rehearsal partner,” she says. Dean blinks.

“What are you—“

“Cas didn’t show again,” Meg says. “You better be at the theatre in thirty minutes or I’m keying your car.”

She promptly hangs up. Dean curses and kicks off the blanket.

 

x

 

Seriously. What the fuck is up with Cas?

Dean follows Meg in a wide sweeping turn, bending his knees and bracing himself for the next lift.

Cas has been MIA for almost a week, and Meg, true to her word, has made Dean practice with her, every fucking day, and never passing up the opportunity to sneer at him, making snide comments about his form and whacking him on the arm when he did something incorrectly. Hell, if this is all on the account of someone else, Dean can't imagine what an actual breakup with her would be like. He imagines it'd probably involve a baseball bat at some point.

Dean misses one of the leaps and awkwardly cramps his elbow in a weird position when Meg leans back against him, and he shakes himself, trying to focus. But his mind keeps drifting back to Cas.

Some twisted part of him wants to think that Cas is acting like this because of him, he really did have feelings for him—but following that train of thought makes him feel horrible stabbing pains of guilt. It’s easier to think Cas had just finally gone off the rails, and that Dean doesn’t mean shit to him.

He’s probably just off on a bender, the stress of the show finally getting to him.

 

But it keeps bugging him.

He can't talk to Jo about it, he can't talk to Charlie, and no way in hell is he talking to Sam. He's been walking on eggshells around him ever since that night in the Roadhouse. Dean refused to acknowledge Sam’s presence anytime he brings up that night, or where Cas was, or what the hell was going on with him—so after a while he stopped asking.

 

But he’s really starting to second-guess himself.

 

x

 

The next day, he shows up to main stage, actually on time—because they’ve pretty much assumed Cas isn’t going to show up at this point.

He shucks his stuff and starts stretching as Meg warms up beside him, doing pliés at the portable barre just offstage. Dean reaches down to touch the floor, before crouching and stretching out his calf, trying to turn his mind off.

Despite his initial reluctance, he’s starting to get the steps down. Mostly he kind of moves around Meg and waits for the partner work so she can practice, but lately he’s been getting more creative, improving in the dead counts, and it’s actually been…fun.

With his regular classes slowing to a crawl, this is the first new routine Dean’s learned in a while, and he’s getting that itch, the inner perfectionist in him demanding that he master it. Hell, he’s lost control of the rest of his life. He guesses he can do this.

 

Then, 10 o’clock on the dot, Cas strides in.

 

 

He doesn’t even acknowledge Dean. He just smiles at Meg, like he hasn’t been missing for the entire past week, slipping a hand around her waist.

“You ready?”

 

There are quite a few other people milling around, in the audience and in the wings, witnesses to Dean’s humiliation. He sees two girls eyeing Cas and putting their heads together, whispering behind their hands.

Dean is silent. Meg shoots him a glance, but he just throws all his shit in his bag and stalks off without saying anything to either of them.

 

Castiel takes his place beside Meg for the first position, and she hisses at him under her breath.

“What the _hell_ is your problem?” She sounds utterly pissed, but Castiel can see the concern in her eyes. He plasters a carefree grin on his face.

“Oh, c’mon, Meg.”

He smirks, giving Anna the cue where she’s standing, waiting to play the music.

“You know I allow myself a week of wallowing, and then I’m good.”

He tried for standoffish and lighthearted, but even he can hear the pain underneath that veneer, and he’s aware of Meg’s face just falling, her voice turning soft.

“Cas…” She starts softly.

He just pulls her closer.

“Shut up and dance with me.”

 

x

 

Dean feels like shit.

So he decides to do what he always does when he’s feeling like shit. Bury himself in alcohol and sex.

 

That night he makes an effort to dress up, slightly more douchey than usual, digging out his leather jacket and his skinny jeans, yanking on his black boots. He ignores Sam’s question as he heads out, just says he’ll be back later. He heads down to the bar on 17th. It’s the kinda place where you might get the clap just from the payphones, never mind the people. He ignores some of the salacious looks he gets from the guys playing pool and heads up to the bar, orders a whiskey, and starts on his way to royally drunk.

 

  

She’s hot. She’s hot and she laughs at Dean’s jokes and she bats her eyelashes in a way that tells Dean she knows exactly what this is—which is why he finds himself getting shoved up against the wall behind the bar, not even having the decency or patience to get back to his car.

It’s quick and it’s hard and Dean should enjoy it, he should—because she’s hot and her tits are big and she’s moaning in his ear like she’s memorized the soundtrack to damn porno or something, and Dean should be enjoying this.

But when the girl shoves her way back from him, wiping her mouth and giggling, all Dean feels is a sick curl of shame in his gut.

 

 

He ends up at some diner, he doesn’t know which one, they all look the same—nursing a headache and a cup of coffee.

It’s two am and there’s a bunch of people laughing and enjoying themselves at the table in the corner, but Dean’s just numb. Their laughter sounds muted, everything in him is just numb.

 

He stares at the cheery red plaid pattern of the tablecloth. He picks at a hole in the plastic. His mom always said she liked the cheap ones. Easier to clean off. Dean always spilled the sugar, mostly on purpose, and Mary would halfheartedly scold him but always draw a smiley face in the sugar, Dean giggling as he licked his sticky fingers.

He still remembers her twirling him around the floor in their living room, laughing as his four-year-old feet tried to keep up with the movements.

Even after the chemo, when Dean was now tall and awkward, instead of an adorable toddler—she’d still manage a smile, beckoning him close. He remembers holding her like she might break, her thin body leaning against his own. That was when the scent of cotton and sunflowers were replaced by a cold medicinal smell, the one that hung around their house like a grim reminder.

“Got your mother’s ear for music,” she’d say softly, smiling against his cheek.

Dean would smile and try not to notice when she’d turn away to hide a cough.

 

What would she think?

 

She would’ve liked Cas, Dean thinks. She would have hated what Dean did to him.

She would tell him to stop moping, to go after what he wants.

 

 

_What do I want?_

It’s not a question he asks himself a lot. He usually tries not to think too much about what he wants, because if he does, he’ll start getting depressed. Dean Winchester doesn’t get to think about what he wants. He doesn’t deserve it.

 

 

 

He sinks his head in his hands and tries not to cry.

 

x

 

Dean gets home a little earlier than usual, and is surprised to see his brother is actually home too. Well, at least his keys are on the counter. Maybe he forgot them.

“I don’t know, Ellen, I’m worried about him.”

Dean pauses.

Ellen’s voice comes, tinny over the speaker.

_“He say what happen?”_

Sam sighs heavily.

“No. You know him. He completely shut me out, pretended like it didn’t even happen.”

Dean walks slowly towards Sam’s room, crossing his arms and standing in the doorway.

“I don’t know. I just want—“

He looks up, paling when he sees Dean.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

 

 

 _“That him?”_ Ellen’s voice asks.

Sam swallows.

“Uh huh.”

_“Put him on.”_

Dean wordlessly holds his hand out.

 

Sam hands the phone to him, looking like a kicked puppy. Dean keeps his face neutral.

_“Dean.”_

“Hey, Ellen.”

_“You haven’t been around in a while. I was worried.”_

Dean rubs a hand over his face.

“Yeah…sorry.”

 _“The least you could do is come back and apologize for starting a fistfight in my bar,”_ she says dryly.

Dean winces.

“Yeah, um. Sorry about that.”

She’s quiet for a minute, then she speaks, her no-nonsense tone creeping in.

_“Come by tomorrow. Got a burger with your name on it.”_

Dean exhales.

“Okay.”

 

x

 

He escaped without too much effort. He withstood Ellen’s grilling and assured her he was fine. He apologized again for the brawl, and offered to do a couple shifts in penance. Well, more like she ordered, and Dean meekly agreed. He could feel her concerned eyes following him all the way out the door. Instead of comforting him, it just made him feel ashamed. She had enough to worry about. And he wasn’t even her kid. He doesn’t want to be anyone’s burden.

Bobby doesn’t mention it. Sam doesn’t either. He seems to feel guilty about the phone call thing, and he’s unusually nice to him, so much that when he comes home one afternoon and slides a piece of cake from that one really good café on the other side of town, the only kind of cake he’ll actually eat, Dean is instantly suspicious.

“What’s this?” He asks. Sam shrugs.

“Cake.”

Dean squints.

“Why.”

“Why not?”

“It April Fool’s Day or something?” Dean glances at the calendar. No—still March.

Sam shakes his head.

“No. I just thought you might want some. I was going by there anyway, after hanging out with some friends, so…”

Dean scowls.

“Sam, I’m fine.”

“I never said you weren’t,” Sam says innocently.

“I—“

“Just eat the damn cake, Dean, okay?”

Dean throws a napkin at him.

 

 

x

 

 

 

**Charlie:**

>> _jo told me you guys broke up_

 

**Sent:**

<< _yeah_

 

**Charlie:**

>> _wanna talk about it?_

 

**Sent:**

<< _not much to talk about_

 

**Charlie:**

>> _not gonna force you dude_

>> _but I give excellent advice, just so you know_

 

**Sent:**

<< _thanks charlie._

 

 

x

 

“Oh. My. God. Meg.”

Anna breezes right past Castiel, pulling impatiently at Meg’s sleeve.

“Did you hear? Michael’s back.”

Castiel tenses up.

Meg glances at him briefly over Anna’s shoulder, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah? He was gone?”

Anna covers her mouth, like she can’t believe Meg didn’t hear this particularly juicy bit of gossip.

“You didn’t know? Yeah, he was out of class for like a _week_ , and he must have gotten beat up or something, his face was all bruised up, and he won’t tell anyone what happened.”

Castiel quickly shoves his shit into his bag, not wanting to hear anymore. He abruptly stands and starts off down the hallway, not bothering to say goodbye.

 

He walks mutely down the hall, lost in his thoughts. So lost, that he doesn’t see Charlie until she’s right in front of him.

Catiel jerks to a halt, blinking at the girl in front of him, her hands on her hips, her fiery red hair tied back into a bun.

 

“Hey, there, Cas,” she says, an odd tone to her voice.

“Uh,” he says. “Hi.”

“Long time no see,” she says flatly.

Castiel clears his throat.

“Yeah. I was, uh…sick for a little while.”

Charlie makes a noncommittal noise.

“Mmhm.”

She crosses her arms, raising an eyebrow.

“Anything new?”

Castiel looks at her, and knows she knows. And knows she knows he knows.

“Nope,” he says.

“Nothing,” Charlie says.

“Nothing,” Castiel repeats.

 

She looks him up and down, then shakes her head slightly.

“Fine.”

 

She turns around and leaves without another word.

 

x

 

 

A couple days later, a sheet of white paper is tacked on the corkboard outside Naomi’s office. And everyone loses their shit.

The fact that the National Dance Company selected Alas to be the host for their annual competition was supposed to be a tightly-kept secret, so naturally everyone in the school knows. But this is the first official announcement for it, and with it comes a few curveballs.

 

There’s the official list of routines being considered in the competition, including the names of the dancers that will be Castiel’s competitors, from all over the country. There’s seven. Nowhere near a full show—so to compensate, the host school always does more routines, to pad the show and make it more of a performance for the audience—and of course, it’s also a chance to show off.

A beginning and closing number, handpicked by Naomi, a couple solos and duets, a four-person dance for the girls Meg is heading—

And this one.

 

Castiel stares dumbfounded at the two names on the list, the chatter of the rest of the students behind him fading away into the background. There’s the various freakouts and the drama and crying about not being selected to be in the show, but Castiel is just staring at the 9th number on the list, not moving. There had to be some higher power up there, fucking with him. Because this seriously cannot be happening.

 

 

“What’s everybody looking at?”

The voice isn’t that loud, but Castiel might as well be tuned to it—and he whips his head around. Dean and Jo are towards the back of the crowd, Jo standing on her tiptoes, craning her head to try to see. Dean is frowning, and when he catches sight of Castiel, he stiffens. Castiel swallows.

 

The space between them empties out, and Jo finally catches sight of Castiel. Her eyes narrow, and she shoots a glance back at Dean, before slightly moving in front of him, her gaze falling back on Castiel. Never did he think such a petite woman could look so _threatening_.

 

He turns his eyes up to meet Dean’s, trying to ignore the lurch his stomach gives. He straightens his spine, speaking coldly.

“Well. Hope you like karma, Winchester.”

 

He turns and stalks off.

 

 

Dean watches him go, his nails digging into his palms. Jo gives him a sympathetic look, before grabbing his sleeve, tugging him up to the piece of paper. She’s not anywhere on the sheet, no surprises there—fuck Naomi and her bias—but there, two names listed, and Dean’s mouth goes dry.

 

_D. Winchester and C. Novak._


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [Are You the One?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NfsbqFbCtC0) by the Presets

He picks up Charlie, bright and early next Saturday. He’s been coping by putting in way too many hours at the garage, blowing her off so he can take more shifts, hoping that focusing on cars will distract him from his thoughts. She slides into the passenger seat, hair already curled up into a tight bun.

“Howdy, stranger,” she says jokingly. But there’s no menace behind it. He smiles tiredly.

“Hey, yourself.”

“You ready?”

He shrugs.

“As I’ll ever be.”

 

She doesn’t seem to mind that he’s not feeling particularly chatty, filling the space between them on the way to Alas. When he parks, she starts to get out, turning around when she realizes Dean isn’t following.

She glances at his hands, which are white-knuckling the steering wheel, then back to his face.

“Want me to come in and kick his ass?” She asks lightly.

Dean barks out a nervous laugh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, breathing in deep.

“Nah, just—just give me a minute.”

 

Charlie, bless her heart, takes his hand as they walk up the steps into the front doors, squeezing briefly. She doesn’t coddle him with words, she’s never been the particularly mothering type—but Dean appreciates it just the same. He’s kind of surprised she’s on his side, considering she was Cas’s friend first.

But then he remembers this isn’t a war. It was just an epiphany. He and Cas were never going to work. Might as well have gone down with a spectacular flameout.

That doesn’t mean he’s not scared shitless.

 

Charlie breaks off to the bigger studio, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek as they part. She’s starting the four-person routine—with Meg, Bela, and Hannah, some sort of girl power thing he vaguely remembers she had been talking to him about in the car ride over.

 

 

Dean steps up to the practice room door. There’s music going inside already, and he takes a deep breath.

Then he walks in.

Cas doesn’t turn around. He’s messing with his iPod, clicking through tracks.

“This is the song we’re using.”

Dean stands motionless at the door as Cas plays the track. He still hasn’t looked at him.

 

 

It’s about the angriest song, Dean’s ever heard—Christ, it sends his pulse spiking just listening to it. How appropriate.

Dean warms up slowly, and Cas keeps his back to him, writing down what Dean assumes is choreo notes in his notebook. He finally finishes and turns around, his face set.

“Let’s go from the beginning.”

 

_But I wanna know, I wanna know_

_But I wanna know, what I wanna know is_

_Are, are you the one? Are you the one?_

_Are you the one? Are you the—_

 

 

They’ve apparently made a sort of unspoken pact to not speak to each other, unless to give directions or suggestions, but Cas is anal as hell about his choreo, and snaps at Dean anytime he tries to change it. It grates against his pride, but he bites his tongue and keeps his mouth shut.

He just had to get through this.

 

 

After two tense, dragging hours, Cas finally calls it.

“We’re done for today.”

 

Cas starts packing up without another word. Dean is tired and hungry and sore, and he can’t keep his stupid mouth shut.

“So what? Why’d we get stuck together?”

Cas pauses briefly, then shoves his jazz shoes in his bag.

“Wasn’t my decision,” he says crisply. “Believe me.”

“Naomi, then?” Dean knows he’s being a dick, but the cold way Cas treated him for the entire rehearsal really stung. Maybe, desperately, he had hoped there was still something there…

“You always said you wanted to see more men dancing together on stage. Guess you finally wore Mom down, huh.”

Cas yanks his iPod from the jack, ignoring him. Dean’s temper flares.

“Pretty sweet deal you get,” he sneers. “Attend the school and get all the benefits, and nobody knows. Must be nice.”

 

He knows he lashed out stupidly, but Cas keeps responding with vitriol, and no one ever said Dean had to be all sunshine and rainbows about this breakup.

 

 

Castiel pulls on his jacket, biting his tongue, resisting the urge to yell in his face. He knows Dean’s just lashing out at him, and the twisted part of Castiel, the one that utterly hates himself, that part of him is telling him he deserves it. Besides, Dean’s not wrong. It’s fucked up that they keep it secret.

But then again, that wasn’t his decision either.

 

“It makes _sense_ , now,” Dean continues. “Why you never wanted to introduce me to her.”

His voice is cold.

“Or let me guess. She probably thinks you’re a good little straight boy.”

Castiel turns around, murder in his eyes.

“Shut up,” he whispers. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t know why you were stressed about this competition at all,” Dean snarls. “Of course, when you have Mom greasing the wheels, there’s no reason to stress.”

 

Castiel stalks up to him, his hand clenched around the strap of his bag.

“Don’t make me hit you.”

“All that poor boy act,” Dean mutters. “Should have seen it for what it was. Rich kid rebellion. Dig a couple needles into your skin, and dyed your hair—oh god, what will you think of next—“

Castiel drops his bag with a sharp thud, and Dean cuts off abruptly, his stance changing slightly, as if he expects Castiel to attack him.

 

 

Dean is breathing hard, glaring at him.

“What’s it like to have money? Really,” he sneers. “What’s it like to never go to bed hungry?”

Castiel snarls back.

“Oh, like you know what that’s like.”

Dean’s face hardens.

“Fuck you,” he breathes. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

He shoves back from him and stalks off down the hall, slamming the door behind him.

Castiel leans back against the wall, his chest heaving.

 

 

x

 

 

“I won’t dance with him. I won’t.”

Naomi looks up from her computer.

“Well. Hello to you, too.”

She takes off her glasses, setting them smartly on her desk.

“I take it you are unhappy with the show assignments?”

“Why the hell did you put me with him?” Castiel snarls, unable to even say his name.

Naomi folds her hands calmly.

“Dean Winchester is exceptional, for being in hip hop,” she says, not bothering to hide the disdain in her voice. “And polite. You said he fixed my car.”

Castiel exhales.

“Yeah, but—“

“I figured you’d appreciate the challenge. I might remind you, you asked for this.”

Castiel had been pushing for more male duets, and his mother had finally agreed but this wasn’t what he fucking wanted. Not this. Anything but this.

Why _now_?

 

“Yeah, but not with him. I would rather dance with anyone else.”

Naomi raises an eyebrow, looking unimpressed.

“I won’t tolerate this attitude, Castiel. You have to learn to play nice with others.”

Castiel fumes, crushing his bag’s strap in his hand. That isn’t the fucking point, but he can’t tell her the real reason, he just—

“I can’t dance with him,” he says stubbornly. “I won’t.”

Naomi doesn’t answer. She just stands and moves to the door, pulling it open.

“You will,” she says crisply, turning to face him. “Now if that’s all, I have a lot of work to do.”

Castiel stares at her, his chest heaving. Her eyes narrow.

“I think you should focus more on your routine with Meg. This is your entire future on a plate, and you should spend less time worrying about a silly duet with some boy.”

 _He’s not just some boy_ , Castiel thinks.

 

He shakes his head, a last desperate plea.

“Mom.”

She doesn’t budge an inch.

“Out. Don’t make me ask again.”

 

x

 

 

Dean’s been in a foul mood all week.

The show’s getting closer, and everyone’s in a fuckin’ tizzy, obsessing over perfect Castiel Novak, and his perfect routine, and how he’s going to get all the goddamn awards.

His stomach is in knots every time he goes into that rehearsal room, but there’s no way out of it. He can only imagine the hellfire Naomi would rain down on him if he dropped out of a routine for such an important show—she could even take his scholarship away. And Dean can’t risk that.

 

“Sammy, you seen my keys?”

“Counter!”

 

Dean pops his head into the kitchen, spying them, hiding behind the coffee machine.

“Oh, sweet—thanks.”

He swipes them up and grabs a banana, his so-called breakfast, before he runs out for another rehearsal of hell. Sam stands quickly.

“Hey, Dean—actually, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Dean freezes. Oh no.

Sam sees his reaction and rolls his eyes.

“Calm down. It’s nothing bad.”

 

Dean turns slowly, raising an eyebrow. He knows he hasn’t exactly been Mr. Cheerful lately, but he thought Sam had gotten with the program of We Do Not Talk About Dean’s Feelings. Apparently he was going to have to remind him.

 

“I got a job.”

 

Dean blanks.

Sam waits for his reaction, his face uncharacteristically hesitant. Dean gapes at him. What the _hell_?

“What, Sam—why?”

Sam shrugs, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re always complaining about how tight money is—“

“Yeah, but that’s _my_ problem, Sam.”

He gestures helplessly at him.

“You barely got enough time now, how the hell are you going to add work on top of that—“

“Dean, I can’t let you pay for everything the rest of my life,” Sam says calmly, like he’s practiced this speech. “It’s time I pulled my weight too.”

“No. No,” Dean says firmly. “We agreed. You focus on school, I take care of everything else—“

“But the LSATs are over,” Sam says, frustrated. “That frees up a lot of time.” He spreads his hands, exasperated. “C’mon. It just makes sense.”

“No,” Dean says obstinately. Even though he isn’t sure why he’s being so stubborn about this.

 

Sam and John had always butted heads – Sam was young, dumb, and had too much anger inside him. There had been so many nights that ended with raised voices and slammed doors, one or both of them storming off, Dean trying to mediate and eventually giving up, tentatively navigating around them both.

After the illness drained all their money away, when they were left motherless and poor, with a father soaked in whiskey and grief—Dean tries to keep that part of himself locked away, his shitty childhood locked in a box, deep inside his heart, because that’s not who he is anymore. Sammy isn’t crying at night anymore ‘cause he's hungry, their deadbeat dad is gone for good, that’s not their life anymore—they can just forget about it.

They’ve got Bobby, and Ellen—and Dean managed to work his way up. He sacrificed his high school diploma, he sacrificed his relationship with Lisa, he sacrificed and gave and gave—and now here Sam was, saying _thanks and all, but moving on now._ He’s just two years from graduation. Then it’s off to law school, if Sam has his way, on the other side of the damn country. Dean doesn’t want to think about it, he puts off thinking about it, but now Sam is real and in front of him, his voice heavy with frustration and his eyes pleading.

“Dean, come on.”

“Sam—“

His whole life has been about his brother, revolved around Sam, what's best for Sam, take care of Sammy. His point of orbit is being ripped away and Dean was falling, nothing to hold him up, lost.

He had been so wrapped up in himself, so selfish in the fucking shitty drama of his life—and he can’t help but think this is somehow his fault.

 

Dean turns away from Sam, his throat thick. He clutches his keys in his hand, so tight it’s starting to hurt. Behind him, Sam sighs.

“Look. It’s barely even a job, it’s washing dishes at Ellen’s. We’re pretty much there all the time anyway.”

“It’s just—“

“ _Why_ , Dean? Why are you getting so worked up about this??”

 

Dean turns, slamming his hand down on the counter. He flounders for the words, but he can’t seem to make his mouth work.

“Sam, it’s my—it’s my job. This is my job. You go to school, I take care of the money stuff—“

“You need to stop treating me like I’m five years old,” Sam shoots back. Dean glares at him.

“C’mon, man.”

Sam huffs out a breath, looking irritated.

“You know, I was excited about this? I was excited to tell you—and you ruined it—“

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me—“

“Dammit, Dean—"

Sam scoffs, his voice turning bitter.

“You know, I have had it up to here with your crap,” he snaps.

Dean blinks.

“What?”

“This tortured, needy, bullshit—you don’t tell me anything that’s going on, you’ve been as touchy as a goddamn grenade lately—and now you’re acting like this is a goddamn death sentence!” Sam cries, his anger getting the better of him.

Dean stares at him, the corners of his eyes pricking. Sam calms down slightly, taking a deep breath.

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” he says softly. “You’re my brother. Nothing’s ever going to change that.”

“That’s not what this is about,” Dean chokes out.

“Then what?" Sam asks, almost pleading. "Please, enlighten me.”

 

Dean can’t tell him. He can’t tell him that Sam is the one of the last good things in his life, and when that’s taken away from him, he’s not really sure what he’s going to do. Alas was never going to last forever, soon he’ll just be stuck, stuck without a purpose for anything, and it terrifies him.

“This is my job, man,” Dean says again, but it sounds unconvincing, even to himself. “Taking care of you.”

He presses a hand to his eye, taking in a deep breath.

“Take that away, and what am I?” He whispers.

Sam softens.

“You’re still Dean. You don’t need me to be you.”

He sighs.

“Besides—you’re not alone. God, you’re not alone. Bobby, Ellen, Jo…even Cas—“

“Oh, please, do not fucking talk about Cas,” Dean snaps.

Sam blinks, opening his mouth, but Dean cuts him off.

 

“Okay, look—if you really want something, you can help at the garage. Bobby’ll give you something—“

“So I can become a fucking mechanic?” Sam snaps, frustrated.

Dean narrows his eyes.

“And what’s wrong with being a mechanic?” He asks lowly.

Sam spreads his hands, his voice incredulous.

“Jesus, Dean—you wanna end up a nobody like Dad?”

“You think you’re too good for this? Better than Dad? Than Bobby?”

Sam hears the actual question in his words. _Better than me?_

“No, Dean—I just don’t want you to get stuck there,” Sam says, taking a slow step forward. “You’re better than that—“

“No, I’m not!” Dean shouts.

Sam shakes his head, for the first time looking angry.

 

“Bullshit. You _know_ you can go somewhere with dance, if you stopped hiding in that garage and actually went to an audition—“

“Christ, Sammy, not this again—“

“Then why are you even going to Alas, Dean?” Sam snaps.

Dean falls quiet, fuming.

“Why are you going to classes if you’re just going to give it all up to fix cars for the rest of your life?”

 

Dean looks down at the keys in his hands. He could say a lot of things. He could tell him the truth. He could tell him that the thought of giving up dance is like the idea of giving up one of his limbs, and that Dean’s trying to cling to the dream as long as possible—because he knows he’ll never make it professionally. Or he could give him the bullshit answer, the standard one he gives to most people when they find out he’s in school for dance.

But he doesn’t say either of those things.

 

 

He looks back up into his brother’s eyes.

“Fuck off, Sam.”

 

 

He stomps out the door and slams it behind him.

 

 

x

 

 

“No—stop, just stop.”

Cas moves up to him, shaking his head.

“That’s not right. You never do it right.”

Dean glares back at him, breathing hard, his hands on his hips.

“Then show me,” he shoots back.

 

Cas lets out an irritated breath, moving into position.

“Three, four, five—turn—and down. Again.”

 

Dean is fuming. Cas counts out the start and he does it wrong again, this time on purpose.

“No, Christ—“

Cas turns to him, his voice furious.

“Wrong again, you do it wrong every single time.”

 

Any other time, Dean would try to let it slide, but he’s already burning hot today—frustrated with Sam and furious at the world and he has no patience for Cas’s nitpicky _bullshit_.

 

“It works better on five,” he snipes out.

Cas whips his head around, like he’s shocked Dean would dare talk back.

“No, it doesn’t,” he hisses through his teeth. “Because then you’re early. And it looks like crap.”

Dean looks him over, then snorts.

“Fuck you. I’ll do it how I want.”

Cas stares at him, dangerously quiet.

“It’s my goddamn routine.”

Dean doesn’t answer him. Cas lets out a cruel laugh.

“You want to look like shit onstage? Fine. Be my guest. I’ll be sure to let everyone know whose fault it is that the only male duet turns out to be a complete disaster.”

“What the fuck do I care,” Dean shoots back. “I never agreed to this in the first place. Let’s just call it off now.”

 

He plops down by his shoes and grabs one, completely intending to get the fuck out of here and slam the door in Cas’s smug face.

“Naomi will kick you out.”

Dean stiffens.

 

“Right. That got your attention, didn’t it?”

Cas walks up to him, his voice cool.

“See, because you might play the aloof bastard and pretend this means fuckall to you, but I know the truth.” He crosses his arms, looking down on him. “This is just as important to you as your brother, your pride, and that scrap heap you call a car. You’d die without dance.”

Dean glares murderously back up at him.

 

“Again,” Cas says thinly, his eyes never leaving his.

 

Dean stands slowly. Cas looks him over once, critically, then turns back to the stereo. 

“You know you can’t have that stupid fucking streak in your hair for the performance, right?”

Cas pauses. Dean knows he knows—he’s a fucking professional, of course he knows—but Dean just wants to fucking mess with him, to screw with Cas as much as possible.

“I’ll take care of it,” he answers stiffly. Dean only nods in return.

“Let’s do it again,” he murmurs, and Dean feels his pulse immediately quicken, everything in his body heightening.

“Fine,” he spits.

 

Cas takes his place opposite him, staring him down with cold eyes.

And when the music starts, this isn’t a fucking routine. This is _personal._

Cas throws himself into the moves with an unusual harshness, his hands on Dean’s skin anything but their usual rough softness. They’re hard and vicious—purposefully bruising—like he wants to leave marks on him. The choreographed shove Dean gives him is harder than usual—it’s rough and anything but gentle—and Cas’s snarl is real and genuine, and when he chases after him, Dean feels an actual curl of fear thrill through his chest.

Cas pins him, Cas throws him, they lift and twist and shove against each other—but Dean’s blood is singing. When Cas does the lift, placing strong hands against his body, holding him tight and trusting, despite the hatred that might be fizzling through him—Dean holds his breath. They continue, spitting and swirling around each other in a harsh vengeance, and when the music stops, they stare at each other from their opposite sides of the stage, breathing heavily.

“Good,” Cas hisses. “You managed not to fuck it up this time.”

Dean flares, his hackles raising.

“You so sure? ‘Cause I see nothing but shoddy work from you, _Castiel_.”

Cas is across the room in a heartbeat, crowding him right against the mirror.

He doesn’t speak for a moment, merely hovering his face over Dean’s own, as he tries to stop his body shaking against Cas’s.

“I would strongly advise against you antagonizing me,” Cas hushes out, his palm solid and hard against the glass by Dean’s head, those piercing eyes fixed on his own. Dean can feel his body pulsing in response, and he only has insulting words in his defense

“And why is that?” He murmurs, rolling his hips. “Can’t handle a little competition?”

Cas’s hand immediately finds his neck, shoving him back against the wall.

“Don’t,” he murmurs. “Don’t.”

 

Dean swallows. He’s about to sneer something else, some threat, anything—because some dark twisted part of him hopes it’ll make Cas kiss him, because Dean craves him so much, and he’d endure his coldness if he just got to touch him again.

 

Castiel is staring at him, eyes wide and pained, and Dean’s breath hitches.

“Cas—“ he starts, breathless.

 

There’s a sharp rap on the door, whoever has the studio next—and they both jerk towards the sound, breathing heavily.

 

Before he knows it, Cas is slipping away from him, without so much as a backward glance.

 

 

x

 

Dean comes home to an empty house.

He breaks out the whiskey, even though it’s barely seven. He curls up on the couch and mindlessly watches one of those cooking show marathons, steadily getting drunker to wait for the inevitable blowup when Sam comes home.

When he blinks open red-rimmed eyes to the dawn streaming in through the windows, Dean realizes Sam isn’t here. He never came home.

 

Dean looks back at the bottle in his hand. He takes another drink.

 

x

 

It’s the same bullshit he used to pull when they were kids. Run away for a couple days, to Bobby’s, usually. So Dean’s not surprised when he gets a text from Jo, later that afternoon.

 

**Jo:**

>> _you wanna tell me why sam’s couchsurfing at mom’s?_

 

He ignores it.

 

 

He spends the next week in this horrible limbo of drunkenness and the flickering lights of late night TV, occasionally pulling himself off the couch to piss or put some kind of food in his body. After that last rehearsal, Cas hadn’t texted him like he usually did, the quick impersonal texts that just said time and place, the only contact they had. That Dean pathetically clung too, saving all of them on his phone.

It’s not going to happen. They’re done. There’s no way they’re going to keep rehearsing after that blowup.

 

Weirdly, he's not worried about any blowback. Cas has got Naomi wrapped around his finger. He’ll make up some sort of explanation.

 

x

 

Dean rolls over, staring at the ceiling.

He made coffee on Thursday. It’s Monday, and he still hasn’t thrown away the coffee grounds. He really needs to do his fucking laundry. You can only wear the same boxers for so many days.

 

He’s jerked out of his stupor by a ruthless pounding on the door.

“Dean!”

He groans, covering his face with his hands.

“Go away, Charlie,” he calls back.

“No,” comes her cheerful voice, muffled through the door. “I’m not going to let you wallow in self-misery.”

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves himself up, shuffling towards the door as she continues to yell at him.

“I’m going to come in this apartment, and you are going to take a shower if I have to strip you and shove you into the tub myself.”

Dean leans his forehead against door, sighing.

“Charlie…”

“I brought pie,” she says, a sly edge to her voice.

Dean groans.

 

“I hate you,” he says as he opens the door.

“You love me.”

 

Charlie comes in and dumps something that smells like Chinese on the counter, wrinkling her nose.

“God. Sam leaves a week and this place goes to hell.”

She turns, a very Ellen-ish look on her face.

“Shower. Now. I’ll clean, then I’m gonna get some food into you while we binge watch Star Wars. No arguing.”

 

Dean blinks for a minute, rubbing his eyes. Then he smiles.

“Thanks, Charlie,” he says softly.

She smiles back.

“Go.”

 

x

 

 

 

He spilled, and told Charlie everything. She had listened silently for all of it, and promptly smacked some sense into him.

 

He remembers her words as he heads towards the main theatre.

_Sometimes, people fight so they don’t have to face their real feelings. Anger’s a secondary emotion. Think about how Cas must have felt._

 

 

He cringes every time he thinks back to what he and Cas said to each other. Dean’s a stubborn asshole who tends to let his anger bleed out of him, and hell if Cas ain’t the same. Maybe they’re more alike then he realized.

He heads towards the theatre, pushing past clumps of gossiping students, the topic of which is mostly the other competitors, who are supposed to arrive tomorrow. Everything is suddenly spotless, even more so then their usual level of pristine (and in Dean’s opinion) way-too-anal cleanliness. Half of the magic of a theatre is how used it is. Give him the dust and lingering smell of sweat, leftover rosin from pointe shoes, the musky curtains and the heat from the stage lights over this crap any day.

 

Since regular classes have ended at this point, Dean fills his time with work, putting probably way too many hours at the garage. Bobby had been mostly silent, letting him do his thing, but today he approaches him, a pinched look on his face.

“Got something I wanna ask ya.”

 

Dean tucks his tools back into his kit, not looking up.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Bobby crosses his arms.

“I wanna know why you ‘n’ Sam are acting like a couple of middle school girls.”

Dean closes his eyes briefly. Of course.

“Oh, so been talking about me?” He asks snidely. “Sam run off to tattle on me to you?”

“Cut the attitude, boy,” Bobby orders.

“I’m not your kid,” Dean shoots back.

 

Bobby’s quiet for a minute, and Dean feels a sudden stab of guilt.

“You might as well be,” Bobby growls eventually. “So shut up and listen.”

Dean fumes, slamming his wrenches back into place at the workstation.

“I’ve known you two idjits your whole life, you think I can’t tell when you’re mad at each other?”

Dean sighs, trying to breathe in through his nose. Overreacting is what got him into this mess in the first place.

 

“It’s nothing bigger than the usual stuff, Bobby,” he mutters eventually. “We’ll get over it.”

“It’s not really about the job, is it.”

It’s not a question. Dean curses, wondering how Bobby manages to be simultaneously the most perceptive and obtuse person in the world. Why is this the stuff he’s good at noticing?

“He’s always going to be your brother, Dean. A little distance ain’t going to change that.”

Dean stands.

“Really don’t wanna talk about it, Bobby.”

 

Bobby looks him over for a minute, his eyes piercing.

“Fine,” he says gruffly. “Then get back to work.”

 

x

 

Castiel doesn’t cave. Not completely.

He buys one of those plastic retainers for his eyebrow and slides it into place, satisfied when he sees how it looks. There’s no way anyone will be able to tell from the audience.

Meg comes over to help him dye his hair. She’s technically the expert, she dyed her hair blonde once when they were 14 (to disastrous results). When he smirks and reminds her of it, she unceremoniously dunks his head under the shower spray.

Castiel watches the dirty brown tinted water swirl in the drain and feels a similar sinking feeling in his stomach. How much did he have to change himself to get this? Was it even worth it?

Meg towels him off and they sit on the couch, eating noodles and watching some celebrity gossip show she likes, waiting for his hair to dry. Meg finally looks him over after about an hour, smiling.

“Looks good,” she says. “A regular heartbreaker.”

 

He wants to smile at her joke, but can’t quite bring himself to do it. Because right now, it doesn't feel like a joke.

 

 

x

 

 

The big day arrives.

Well, one of the big days.

 

The other competitors start to trickle in, with the strange fanfare of everyone on high alert, akin to a bomb threat, and the air of everyone trying to act as indifferent as possible. There’s Raphael and Casey, a haughty pair who haven’t spoken to anyone since they arrived. They show up every day at some ungodly hour, because they’re already practicing by the time the Alas backstage workers show up. Casey has a look on her face like she’s permanently pissed off, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s never heard Raphael speak a damn word.

Then Madison, a girl Dean actually likes. A female solo, out of San Francisco. She had bumped into him backstage one day and introduced herself, making him smile for the first time in days. She and Charlie instantly bonded over some random soap they both watch, and they keep threatening to show up at Dean’s place to ‘hang out’.

A tall blonde guy whose name Dean didn’t bother learning, the male solo.

Then Isaac and Tamara, who everyone generally likes. Then there’s them. _Them._

Both tall and pale, and both freaky as fuck. Dean thinks the entire theatre went quiet when they walked in. Lightning probably struck. Thunder boomed. (Okay, that might have been Ash messing around in the sound booth, but still.)

Hell on high heels.

 

Balthazar of course, instantly makes a beeline for them, leaning casually back and putting on his best flirting a-game.

“Balthazar. Charmed,” he says, all but batting his eyelashes at them. “And you are…?”

“Lucy,” the first one says, her voice eerily soft. “And my partner in crime, Abby.”

“Pleasure.” The other girl smiles wide, blood red lips parting to reveal too-white teeth.

Balthazar grins.

“Sooo, darlings. Where did you two gorgeous girls come from?”

“Detroit,” Lucy said dismissively, eyes quickly scanning the theatre. She seems to see something she likes, because she smirks, tossing her dirty blonde hair over her shoulder.

Cas isn’t there.

“And you. Beautiful.”

Abby turns a cold eye on Balthazar. He doesn’t seem to realize that she’s looking at him like he’s a particularly talkative bug, one that’s she’s about to crush underneath her boot.

“Abby," Balthazar continues, oblivious. "Short for anything?”

She looks him up and down, then gives a cool smile.

“You really don’t want to know.”

 

Dean avoids them. And no, not ‘cuz he’s scared. They’re just fucking weird. They’re always whispering together, and they watch the other dancers like they’re continuously plotting something. One day they were watching Cas practice in the group piece onstage, and Dean had a weird urge to run up onstage and shield him from their hungry stares.

 

x

 

Thursday, just a little over a week until the show, and Dean’s lounging in the theatre next to Ash, waiting for someone to give them something to do, when his phone rings.

“Hello?”

 

 

 

Castiel points to a couple of the dancers, directing them to their proper spots.

“A little upstage, and Meg, more center, okay—“

“WHAT?”

 

Everyone stops, looking around for the source of the noise. With a pang, Castiel realizes it’s Dean, standing out in the audience with his phone pressed to his ear, his face pale. Charlie hops off the stage, running up to him. He can’t hear them, they’re too far away, but Charlie looks worried, and Dean is talking angrily to someone on the other end.

He hangs up and he’s suddenly running out of the theatre, everyone parting to make room for him. Castiel stares after him, speechless.

 

Charlie turns, walking back up onto the stage, looking dazed. Meg speaks up.

“Yo, Bradbury. What was that about?”

Charlie looks up.

 

“It’s Bobby,” she says shakily. “He had a heart attack.”

 

 

x

 

 

Dean pushes through the people in the waiting room, nearly frantic.

“Where is—Bobby Singer, where is Bobby Singer?”

“Sir, you have to—“

“ _Where is he_?” Dean yells, and the nurse at the station shrinks back, terrified. Dean is starting to panic, when he feels a hand on his arm.

He whirls, raising his fist—but it’s Jo, who quickly snatches her hand back.

“This way,” is all she says.

 

 

 

They’re forced to wait outside the room for nearly six hours. Ellen isn’t crying, but her hands are twisting nervously in her lap. Jo doesn’t speak either, just laying her head on her mom’s shoulder, her expression blank.

Sam got there about an hour after everyone else, his eyes watering, his voice desperate.

“Dean,” he choked out when he saw him. “Is—is he—“

“Don’t know yet,” Dean said tersely.

 

 

And then they waited. And waited.

 

 

Dean doesn’t remember when he dozed off, passed out, whatever—but he’s roused by Ellen gently shaking him.

“Dean, honey,” she says quietly. “He’s awake.”

 

 

He practically spills in through the door.

“Bobby—“ He blurts. 

Bobby waves a hand, looking so strangely thin in the sterile hospital gown.

“I’m fine, kid," he grumbles. "Keep your hair on.”

Dean deflates in relief, moving forward and drowning him in a hug. Bobby doesn’t protest, and he grips him back, as much as the needles and tubes will allow. He pats him firmly on the back, finally breaking the embrace.

“You make sure that garage doesn’t go to hell,” he says as they part, a little gruffer than usual.

“Yessir,” Dean says, his voice thick.

 

Ellen has been silent until now, but now she snaps, standing quickly, going into lecture mode.

“Bobby Singer, I cannot believe you. I _told_ you this would happen if you didn’t take damn better care of yourself—“

She stops to take a breath, flustered.

“A healthy dose of vegetables from now on,” she says firmly. “No arguments.”

“Oh, cripe, Ellen—“

She grabs Bobby's hand, shaking her head.

“I want you around for a long time,” she says, her eyes watering. She just holds tight to his hand for a moment, looking as if she's deciding something.

Then she swoops down and kisses him. Bobby makes a little surprised sound—but he doesn't seem to be complaining.

 

“Finally,” Jo mutters from the corner.

 

x

 

Bobby’s surgeon explains a couple official things to them, doctory stuff that Dean mostly ignores and Ellen pays rapt attention to, and then they get banished from the room so Bobby can get some rest.

Dean walks out, wiping his eyes. He thinks he’s crying purely from the stress. His whole body hurts, feels like he's been wrung out and hung out to dry. Basically, he feels like shit. And he really needs something to eat.

He looks up. Sam didn’t follow Ellen and Jo, he’s standing there, nearly crying too.

Dean clears his throat.

“Sam,” he starts. “Look—“

Sam just cuts him off, grabbing him and pulling him into a tight hug. Dean melts, and hugs him back, letting all the shit of the past few weeks get swept away, if just for a moment. It’s a typical Winchester apology, but it always weirdly makes him feel better.

 

They part eventually, and Sam shakes his head, his words choked.

“Shit, Dean, I’m so sorry,” he breathes. “For everything—“

“We both fucked up, Sam,” Dean replies. “It doesn’t matter. None of it does. Alright?”

They stand opposite each other, Sam with his arms crossed over his chest, trying to get his breath back.

“I realize now, it was bad timing, god it was fucking shitty timing—“ Sam looks up, his eyes pleading. “But you know it’s not because of you, right? I just need my own space. I need to grow up.”

 

“I know.”

 

Dean just keeps nodding, his heart feeling like it’s going to burst.

 

“I know.”

 

x

 

Dean heads to the theatre, feeling lighter than he has in days. He and Sam had stayed up ‘til nearly three a.m., talking everything out. He finally told him about all the shit that happened between him and Cas, even though it nearly killed him to see the look on his brother’s face. But it was like leeching a snakebite of its poison, and with every word, Dean felt the ugly pain inside him soften and damper. It’s still there, but telling Sam had shifted some of the weight of the burden.

 

Sam had also basically pointed out how stupid he had been, which Dean is starting to realize is true. He was an idiot. He just hopes that somehow, he can make it up to Cas.

 

The competition is this Saturday. Now that Dean’s not actually performing in it, he’s volunteered to help out with the rest of the students who aren’t performing, helping out backstage. Dean’s started carpooling with Charlie, now that their schedules semi-match up. He drives her to the theatre and she rehearses, while Dean chills with Ash and the rest of the stagehands. Bobby’s getting discharged in time too, so the five of them are going to go watch the show together. Dean’s looking forward to actually attending the show instead of being in it for once.

 

On Tuesday, he’s sitting in the audience, mindlessly checking his phone as the opening routine practices on stage. One to ‘show off the skills of Alas’, which meant of course it’s filled with only Naomi’s precious favorites (they said anyone from any discipline could audition, but everyone knew it was biased as hell.) Everyone’s just kind of loitering around, people fixing up lights, and Dean is waiting for Charlie to get done. He might also be sorta-kinda-definitely watching Cas as he moves with the rest of the dancers in the group.

 

 

It happens so quickly Dean really isn’t sure what happened—either she was coming out of a leap, or someone dropped her—but there’s a loud thumping noise, a cry of pain—and Dean looks up to see Meg on the floor, clutching her leg.

 

Dean bolts up. _Holy shit_ —

 

He sees Cas run forward, his face pale—everyone on stage staring in horror, a couple people with their hands over their mouths. He sees Lucy and Abby watching, their faces unreadable. They put their heads together and start whispering, and Dean deliriously thinks they had something to do with it.

 

Castiel drops to her side, and utterly freezes. Oh god. What can he do?

“Are you okay? Meg, _Meg_ —“

She tries to sit up, but falls back, her face twisted in pain.

“Thinking that’s a no, Cassie,” she says weakly.

 

Balthazar scoops her up and carries her offstage, and Castiel watches mutely, his mouth hanging open.

“I’m sorry,” she calls, her voice sounding very far away. “I’m sorry—“

 

 

He suddenly becomes aware of where he is, and of the sympathetic looks, the people who have gone from worrying about Meg to realizing what it means for Cas’s chances. Which are now non-existent.

 

x

 

Castiel pushes through the door into the cold backstage hallway, the florescent lights flickering feebly. He presses a hand against the brick, breathing heavily.

He starts blindly for Naomi’s office, his heart pounding.

Fuck. _Fuck._

But he doesn’t make it that far.

Behind him the door slams open, and he spins, seeing his mother stride wildly through it, her eyes manic.

“ _There_ you are—“

She strides up to him, seizing his arm in a claw-like grip.

“Mom—“

“Meg is heading to the hospital, Castiel—“

“I _know._ ”

He struggles against her, but her hand is like iron.

“You know what this means?” She’s frantic, one lock of hair falling from her usually impeccable bun. “If you can’t perform that routine that means this will all have been for nothing, and then—“

“Mom.”

He rips his arm back, his tone steely.

“I can fill the spot, okay? It’s not a problem.”

Her ice grey eyes flare.

“Choose anyone,” she says curtly. “Choose anyone you like as a replacement. I don’t give a damn.”

Castiel stares back.

“I’ll handle it,” he snaps.

 

She straightens, settling back into her hard plastic coolness.

“Notify me when you’ve found someone.”

Then she’s gone, stalking back down the corridor.

 

x

 

 

Castiel turns the corner, his mind boiling.

He has to do it. He has to. That’s what he keeps telling himself. If he wants to get into the National Dance Company, he has to do this. And as shitty as it’s going to be, it’ll all be worth it when he walks onstage. It’s the last fucking option, and he’d give anything not to have to do this.

But he’s got no other choice.

 

He went to the hospital briefly to check on Meg, but the second he walked in the room she sat up, even with all the IVs and the cast on her leg and told him to get the fuck out.

 

“You get your ass back to that theatre,” she snapped. “And you find someone to do that goddamn routine.”

 

And he tried. Oh god, did Castiel try. He rejected half of the girls just on pure skill, and a dozen others because he had never danced with them before. This routine would not work without some emotional component. It just wouldn’t happen. Castiel pours his soul and his life into his choreography, and a complete stranger could never understand the moves the way he wanted them to. And Castiel isn’t looking for passable. He’s looking for the best.

He wishes Anna were here, because they’ve always liked each other—she’s one of the few people he’s always had a truly platonic relationship with, which he respects and loves her for—but she’s in California—with the school year over and her grandfather getting older, she had returned home as soon as possible, and he can’t ask her to fly back across the country.  

 

Then he went to Charlie. They always worked well in ballet together, and even though they’ve never tried anything in this style, he thought it was worth a try. He was fucking desperate, at that point. It could work. Right?

Wrong.

Charlie’s good—she’s a fucking amazing ballerina, but there’s something about Castiel’s style that just didn’t translate, and they were barely thirty counts into the routine before she pushed back from him, shaking her head.

“It’s not gonna work,” she said sadly. “I’m sorry, Cas, it’s just—it’s not gonna be there.”

 

So that left one option.

One, horrible, terrible, really bad idea of an option.

 

 

Castiel slams the door open, his jaw set. He knew he’d find them here. Charlie’s sitting next to him, biting her lip. And there he is, propped up against the mirror, phone in his hands. At the sound of the door hitting wood, he looks up irritably, brow furrowed.

His jaw doesn’t drop, but it’s a near thing.

Castiel sucks in a breath.

“I need you to do the duet with me.”

 

Dean’s face blanks.

 

Castiel squeezes a hand around the strap of his dance bag.

“Please.”

Dean seems dazed, just staring at him.

“What?” He breathes.

Castiel swallows and walks up to him, his heart feeling like it's being squeezed out of his chest. 

“I need you to do the routine with me,” he says again.

Dean blanches.

“Are you—are you fucking _kidding_ me? I—“

“You’re the only one who knows it,” Castiel snaps.

Dean throws him a venomous look.

“No, I fucking _do not.”_

“You practiced with Meg, you—“

Dean snarls.

“ _Practiced,_ yeah—but I didn’t learn the damn thing—“

“Cut through the bullshit, okay?"

 

Dean shoots a furtive look at Charlie. She’s biting her nails.

“What about Charlie, I bet she—“

“We already tried,” Castiel says shortly. “It was a fucking disaster.”

Dean glares at her, betrayal written all over his face. But she shrugs, raising her hands in defeat.

“He’s right,” she mutters. “I couldn’t do it. God, there were moves in there I’ve never even seen before—“

“And you already know it,” Castiel finishes impatiently. “It just makes sense. Dean.”

Dean’s numbly shaking his head, floundering for an excuse.

“Bela.  or…or Jo, even—“

“Jo is not nearly good enough.”

“Fuck you, she’s—“

“No.”

Cas is livid, his frustration humming underneath his skin.

“You know she can’t do this style,” he snaps. “Not in three days.”

Dean stares at those fathomless blue eyes, fuming.

Charlie stands suddenly, and Dean’s vaguely aware of her making some excuse, saying some goodbye and slipping out the door. But he can’t focus on anything else. There’s only Cas.

“Why me?”

 

Cas just stares at him. Dean digs his nails into his palm.

“Okay, so you ran out of your supply of girls, but me— _me?_ What about Balthazar, or Michael—“

Cas’s eyes flash at the mention of his name, and Dean shrinks back, suddenly cowed.

Cas stalks up to him, until they’re practically nose-to-nose.

 

“Because you are the only one who knows this,” he hisses under his breath, his voice shaking in rage. “Because I know how it is to dance with you.”

Dean swallows, unable to look away. Cas growls.

“I know how fucking infuriating you are, how selfish—I know how much effort you put into your dances, and I know how fucking good that makes them.”

Dean’s throat goes dry.

“Because I know you are the only one in this school who could possibly help me,” he continues, his voice rising. “And you’re the only one who could pull this off, the only one I trust with this routine, and I—“

He cuts off, his lips tightening.

 

They stare at each other, Dean’s back pressed against the hard surface of the mirror. Neither of them move.

 

“I’ll have to tweak it a bit, but it’ll mostly be the same,” Cas mutters, not blinking.

Dean can’t breathe.

“You’re fucking insane,” he mutters.

“It could work,” Cas says breathlessly, almost pleading. “It could work.”

Dean shakes his head.

“I wouldn’t ask you, unless I had nothing else.”

Cas’s eyes are fixed on his, reeling and trapping him in.

“We work together,” Cas says softly. “You know we do.”

“Yeah?” He scoffs weakly.

But Dean he can feel himself weakening, wanting more than anything to surge forward, to wrap Cas in his arms, to whisper it’s alright, that he’ll fix it, he’ll make everything okay—

 

“Please,” Cas whispers.

And all at once, his resolve shatters.

 

 

Cas is soft and broken and pleading in front of him, and Dean breaks.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs:  
> [Heartbeat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGGIrvWIFKw) by Childish Gambino  
> and again  
> [Arsonist's Lullabye](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnt2aHn0waA) by Hozier
> 
> If you're interested, I took a lot of inspiration for Dean and Cas's dance from this [video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qk00gbDwGqM)

When the news hits, the whole school goes ballistic.

It spreads like wildfire—Castiel’s routine, posed to be the favorite at the national competition, suddenly struck down by injury, and now, and _now_ —

By the end of the day, apparently everyone in a five-mile radius has found out, and the next day, there’s a small crowd gathered around their rehearsal studio.

Gossip has always traveled whirlwind fast at Alas, but with this juicy story—Meg injured and now a male duet onstage, and for a _contest_ no less—a routine known for it sexuality and hotly charged choreography, every step flaming and hard, breathing with the music and the heat of the auditorium—

Dean finds himself uncomfortably in the spotlight.

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel takes a deep breath. He knocks.

The door immediately swings open. She’s been waiting for him.

“In,” she orders.

 

Castiel falls into the seat opposite the desk, but she doesn’t sit down, just stalking back and forth. She doesn’t speak for a moment, but the air is thick with her fury, and Castiel braces himself, waiting for it.

“Are you—“

She cuts off, breathing heavily through her nose. Then she whirls on him.

“Are you out of your _mind_?”

Castiel clenches his fists.

“Mom—“

“A boy? A _boy_? Do you have any idea what that looks like—what kind of message that sends—“

“He was the only one who could do it,” Castiel snarls back. “If I had any other choice—“

“There is always another choice, Castiel,” Naomi snaps. “And him—him? You can’t call what he does _dance_ —“

Castiel looks up sharply.

“What?”

Naomi waves her hand, irritated.

“Oh, please. If I could, I’d get rid of the whole hip-hop program. You think I’d accept anything less than the best at my school?”

Castiel glares at her, speechless.

“Only because someone advised me that accepting these charity cases would look good to patrons of the school,” she mutters. “If I had refused like I wanted to, we wouldn’t _be_ in this situation.”

Castiel stands slowly, rage burning in his blood.

“Some people can’t afford it,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean they’re not good.”

“Castiel, dance training costs money,” Naomi snaps. “Don’t tell me how to do my job. Especially when you’ve made clear the disdain you have for it.”

Castiel can’t even find the words to argue with her, he doesn’t think he’d be able to hold himself back if he did.

“Anyway, don’t change the subject,” Naomi says. “This isn’t happening. I won’t allow it.”

 

Castiel closes his eyes briefly. Then he stands, looking at her coldly.

“I don’t think you have a say anymore.”

Her eyes nearly bug out of her head.

“ _Excuse_ me? I don’t know what kind of stunt you think you’re pulling—“

“I have to rehearse,” he says flatly, heading towards the door.

 

“Castiel James Novak, don’t you dare walk out that door.”

 

Castiel stops, fuming, his hand frozen on the doorknob.

“Sit. Down.”

“No.”

“Castiel—“

“You said anyone,” Castiel says lowly.

“Yes, but—“

“Mom, almost all of the guys at this school are gay!” He yells. “You’re seriously going to object to this?”

“I object to _you_ doing this,” she shoots back. “This is not how I raised you—“

“Well, guess what, Mom?” Castiel shouts. “I like fucking dudes too, okay? Sorry if that dampens your plan of a perfect family, but _deal with it_.”

 

Naomi stares at him, her mouth agape, utterly in shock.

 

Castiel stares at her, his fists clenched.

“This is happening,” he whispers. “With or without your permission.”

 

With that, he walks out, slamming the door behind him.

 

x

 

There’s no fucking around.

Cas comes in with a weird energy from the first second. They don’t speak unless Cas is making a comment or teaching a step, and Dean’s got the whole thing learned in about an hour. Now comes the actual dancing part of it.

The lifts are the hardest part. Some of them have to be adjusted slightly, or just changed completely, because the two of them are now splitting the partnerwork, and they’re both a little heavier than tiny 5’4’’ Meg.

They decide on simple outfits, Dean in a red Henley and loose pants, Cas pretty much the same, but in white.

And Dean’s getting the moves down, but it’s just not working for some reason. Cas is so frantic and tired that he doesn’t have the energy to be mean to him. Dean is completely confused. There’s been some odd moments where they’ve been so exhausted and worn out that there’s no space for anger, and it’s started to feel normal between them, like back to how it was before.

 

Being this close to Cas, spending so much time with him…it’s reawakening all sorts of things in him. And suddenly he can’t remember how he ever could have doubted him in the first place.

 

 

So he’s just confused as fuck when they finish up for the night.

 

Cas pauses before he’s about to leave, turning back to glance at him.

“Just, uh…”

Dean looks up. Cas taps his fingers on the door handle.

“Get some sleep, okay?”

He gives him a small smile, and then he’s gone.

 

It’s such an odd display of affection, that Dean is floored.

 

He sits there, alone on the stage in a dark theatre, and he looks out into the dark audience. He suddenly feels very small.

 

 

He should go home. Sam’s probably waiting up for him, watching the lopsided clock on the wall, rubbing his eyes and fighting sleep as he flips through yet another textbook.

 

Dean gets up, not really sure what to do. He ends up putting on Arsonist’s Lullabye again, and he runs through some of the trickier parts, but halfway through, he realizes his heart isn’t in it.

 

The track reaches its end and slowly fades out, and Dean waits for his shuffle to kick in, wondering what song will start next.

 

Soft piano chords start, gentle and slow, and Dean shoves his hands in his pockets, a slow smile crossing his face.

The stage is dark and empty.

 

 

 

 

The beat starts, and he closes his eyes, letting it pulse through him. He nods his head slightly, just feeling the music.

_I wanted you to know_

_That I am ready to go_

_Heartbeat_

_My heartbeat_

 

He taps a hand against his chest, ingraining the rhythm in his mind.

_I wanted you to know_

_Whenever you are around_

_I can’t speak_

_I can’t speak_

 

Then he just moves.

 

The beat picks up, and he throws back his head, pounding his rage into the floorboards.

No planned steps, no choreo, no routine. No partner shouting in his ear.

A jump up, twist, pulse, hit, hit hit, lock—

Down, down, floorwork—his pulse pounding in his ears, music and blood pumping in tandem, his head lost in the music.

It’s just him, his body and the music—all himself, raw and primal, everything welling up inside him and exploding as he throws himself across the floor, bringing his hands to his head, panting hard.

Just go, go. No words, no thoughts. Like when he was a kid—he lets it flood through him, and everything fades away. There’s no Sam, no Cas, no fucked up future.

Just him. Just this.

 

_You thinking that this song’s coming on to tempt me_

_I need to be alone like the way you left me_

 

He wipes the sweat from his forehead, breathing.

 

_So we fuck til we come to conclusions_

_All the things that we thought we were losing_

Dean grabs at his shirt, clutching as the beat pounds through him, and he moves with it, just feeling.

 

_I was wrong, but would you have listened to you?_

 

His heart is pounding in his ears, the kick of the drum rattling through his soul.

It reminds him of when he was a teenager, when he would drown his sorrows in dance. Back then—turn on some music and just fucking move. Shake off the memory of Dad coming home with a black eye and stinking of whiskey, shake off his shitty grades and his fucked up friends, shake off painful memories of Mom.

 

_So were done? This the real shit?_

 

On the dark stage, he just moves.

Heart beat.

 

He turns too hard and he loses his balance—he falls, cursing under his breath.

He hears it echo and he gets braver, saying it louder.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he calls, the word throbbing around him.

He stands and shouts it.

 

_Are we dating? Are we fucking?_

 

He’s reckless, maybe pushing himself, down up, spinning, twisting, floorwork until he’s out of breath, pulling even some fancy-ass turns, more than he ever thought himself capable of.

 

_Are we best friends? Are we something? In between that?_

_I wish we never fucked and I mean that_

He smacks the floor, shoving himself up.

_But not really._

 

 

Dean collapses, just as the song ends, dropping to his back.

 

 

 

He stares up at the ceiling, pulling in air.

 

It’s silent. Only him, catching his breath, and the dull hum of the empty theatre.

Dean breathes hard, the cold stage floor comforting and solid beneath his back. He just collapses, losing himself in the harsh burn of oxygen in his lungs, sweaty and stinging and _alive_.

 

If there’s a Heaven, he thinks it might be a dark theatre.

 

 

“Feel better, Winchester?”

 

Dean jerks up. Meg is watching silently from the wings, the silver smoke of a cigarette curling from her fingertips.

 

He props himself up on his elbows.

“You can’t smoke in here,” is the first thing he says.

 

She slips it back into her lips, taking a deep pull.

“Hey. My entire future just got derailed.”

She sighs, visible and smokey in the unreal glow of the stage lights.

“I think I’m entitled."

 

Dean sits up, rubbing his face. Meg slowly wheels herself forward into the light, and just sits there, watching him.

He drags a hand through his sweaty hair, shooting her a glance.

“What are you doing here, Meg?”

“I wanted to talk to you.”

“’Bout what,” Dean says bitterly, bending his knees and clutching them to his chest.

“About the fact that you broke my best friend’s heart.”

 

He snaps his head over. She glares back, her gaze hard and unforgiving.

“What?” He breathes.

Meg shifts her chair forward, plucking the cigarette back into her lips.

“You screwed with one of the people I care about most on this earth, so I’m a little fucking pissed at you. I didn’t understand the extent of it before, god, that’s probably the only reason I practiced with you—“

“Meg, what—“

“I thought you were just another one of the pack,” she says carelessly, scratching underneath the cast. “That’s why I didn’t rip your throat out.”

Dean stares at her.

“But I figured it out.”

She starts to rummage around in her bag, voice mumbled by the cigarette between her lips.

“God, I was an idiot. I thought he was over you.”

Dean clenches his fist, fuming.

“Sorry to break it to you, Meg,” he mutters. “But he is. I bet he can’t even stand to look at me.”

He stands, trying to look like his own words don’t bother him.

“He’s moved on,” he says bitterly.

Dean crosses over to his dance bag, avoiding her eyes.

“You really fuckin’ like him, don’t you.”

 

Dean snaps his head over, staring at her. She doesn’t look up, continuing to root through her bag.

He swallows.

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath.

“Yeah, I really fuckin’ do.”

She finally surfaces with her lighter and carton, fixing him with a hard glare. She holds them in her hands like a weapon _,_ staring him down.

“But I screwed it up.”

Dean shakes his head slowly, not really sure why he’s confessing this all to her. His heart's still pounding, adrenaline running thick through his blood.

“God, Meg. I screwed it up so bad.”

“I know.”

She plucks the cigarette from her lips, her eyes hard.

“He was real fucked up after you left.”

 

Dean sits up.

“What?”

“He was happier then I’ve ever seen him when he was with you,” she says, tapping out some ash on the stage. “And you took that away from him. I don’t forgive that lightly. You have some serious apologizing to do.”

She jabs the cigarette at him, accentuating every word.

“Figure out your shit, Winchester.”

 

Dean swallows, shaking his head.

“What do I do, Meg? What can I do?”

 

She drops the butt to the floor, where it fizzles and dies, orange and cooling against the black bleak stage.

 

“You win him this competition. Or the second this cast comes off, I’m kicking your ass.”

 

 

x

 

 

They’re sitting after running through the routine, and Dean’s taping up his toes. Cas insisted on bare feet, which is giving him some mothers of blisters.

That’s when Cas speaks.

“My dad left when I was three.”

Dean snaps his head up.

“So I can remember him,” Cas continues, not looking at him. “Barely, y’know. And uh…it…it really fucking sucks. Kind of wish he had left before I was even born. The shrink my mom made me go to said it gave me, uh, ‘lifelong abandonment issues.’ Obviously never worked those out.”

“Cas…” Dean starts, but he realizes he has no idea what to say.

“So I guess,” Cas says, pretending like Dean hadn’t even spoken. “If there was someone I really cared about, I mean r _eally_ cared about, and he fucked up—my first instinct would be to shove him away, instead of fix it like a normal person. Which I’m really fucking irritated at myself for.”

Cas still hasn’t looked at him. He’s got his arms crossed, leaning his chin on his huddled knees, his watery blue gaze trying to burn a hole in the floor. Dean doesn’t know what to say, so he just says:

“Thank you,” he murmurs quietly.

Cas stands.

“Let’s run it again.”

 

x

 

 

They ran it ‘til about 3 am last night. It’s passable. They both have all the moves, but for some reason, it’s just not clicking. Charlie gave them a weak smile at the end of rehearsal, then lied through her teeth about how good it was. Cas was nearly in tears.

Dean heads into the practice room. There’s an odd hushed sort of atmosphere in the whole theatre. Despite the gossip and shit-talking that flies back and forth between students, everyone seems to feel the impending doom, and it’s turned into something almost like sympathy. When people stare at him now, it’s not malevolent. It’s pitying, and Dean hates it.

 

 

They're down to their last couple of run-throughs, barely an hour before the curtain's supposed to go up.

They finish it again, and they both just fall out of the final pose, breathing hard. Dean doesn't say a word.

Castiel stares at the mirror for a minute, then runs a hand through his hair, sitting down heavily. 

 

“I was so close,” he whispers. “I thought…”

He sighs.

“And...I don’t blame you, Dean. I don’t.”

 

Dean is still. Cas hunches in on himself, looking so small. He brings a hand to his forehead, his shoulders trembling a little.

“Cas.”

 

Cas looks up.

“Don't give up yet, man,” Dean whispers. “We’re going to do this.”

 

Cas just stares at him for a moment, but then he drops his head, letting out a bitter laugh.

“I don’t—“

He exhales heavily, searching for the words.

“Why are you being so nice to me? I honestly—I don’t understand it, why you agreed in the first place, after all the shit we did to each other, what I did—“

Cas stops, his hands trembling. Dean steps closer, kneeling at his side.

“Not gonna lie," he says softly. "It fucking sucked.”

Cas laughs a little, the tail end of it fading away into a choked inhale. Dean shakes his head, continuing.

“It sucked when you left,” he mutters. “You walked away and you shut me out and I…I didn’t know what to do. How to fix it. But you…you seemed like you didn’t want it fixed.”

“I know,” Cas chokes out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

 

Cas just looks incredibly lost. Dean knows he’s never been one for expressing his feelings, but to see Cas struggle, trying to, but coming up empty…it hurts. It hurts so bad. He wants to shake him. _Just talk to me, just say it, I—_

Cas suddenly stands, making an aborted attempt for the door.

“I should probably go,” he whispers. “Get ready.”

 

He tries to leave it at that, but Dean pushes himself up and runs after him, shaking his head desperately.

“Don’t you dare,” he chokes out. “Don’t you fucking dare—“

 

He grabs his hand, and it’s like Cas had been waiting for that, waiting for their hands to touch again, not on the dance floor, not because he told him to, but because he _wants_ to—and he melts into him, letting Dean pull him into his arms, clutching at Dean’s hair, his breath hot and shaky against his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he says, trembling. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Cas frames his face in his hands, and doesn’t bother with trying to find the words anymore. He kisses him, speaks to him in his own language, apologies getting lost between the slide of their lips.

 

There will be time for talking later. Now is this, now is them, and it’s terrifying, but it’s what Dean had been waiting for. He clings to Cas’s hands, pulling them up to his chest, pulling back so he can look into those eyes.

“We’re gonna do this okay?” He whispers. “It’s going to be amazing. I...I trust you, Cas. I trust your dance and I trust you’re gonna catch me out there, no matter what.”

Cas looks back at him, his eyes wide and pained, hands clinging to his, so tight it’s almost painful.

“Do you trust me?” Dean whispers.

 

Cas’s hand finds his cheek, and slowly, he nods.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I do.”

 

Dean swallows, a sudden warmth and brightness soaking through his chest, swelling around his heart. He squeezes Cas’s hand.

“Okay, then.”

 

 

 

 

“Lets do this.”

 

 

x

 

Showtime. He knows Bobby and Ellen and Sam are in the audience, and he tries to hang on to that small piece of sanity. Do this for them. Don’t think of anything else.

 

He and Cas stand silent in the wings, watching the routines. Dean never lets go of his hand.

 

Shit. The others are good. They’re really good. A couple of the routines, Dean could take it or leave it, but some blow him out of the water, and he’s really starting to wonder how he could ever compete with this shit.

Right before them, Abby and Lucy are up, and they’re dancing to some weird synthesized shit, moving like pale Siamese twins. (Conjoined twins, whatever Sam.)

 

Cas peeks around the curtain, and abruptly freezes.

“Oh, shit,” he whispers. “It’s them. The judges.”

 

Dean doesn’t look. He doesn’t want to think about the judges. He’s kind of more focusing on not throwing up.

 

 

The two of them hold their breath they’re making the announcement. Dean can hear the whispers of the people in the audience.

 

“This is going to be a disaster,” he whispers.

 

Cas suddenly grips his collar and pulls him around, just staring at him. He's frozen, illuminated by the glow of the house lights, and Dean stares at those eyes, lit up with a strange sort of desperation and hope, before the lights cut out and it all goes to black.

But he kisses him anyway.

 

He pulls him in, losing himself in the hard taste of Cas on his tongue, and Cas responds, gripping him tight.

 

Then something rips them apart.

Ash, shoving them forward.

“Get onstage, you assholes!” He hisses.

 

Cas looks at him, and then he’s bolting forward, darting out into the middle of the stage, taking his position.

 

Dean takes a deep breath, walking forward.

He reaches Cas just as the lights go up, and then the music starts.

 

_Hmmmm_

 

That hard buzzing hum, echoing in his heart, through his bones and in his soul.

Cas’s eyes find his, their hands sliding together.

 

_Hmmmm_

 

Dean is transfixed, forgetting the audience, the heat of the lights, everything.

Castiel's hand is on his back.

“Breathe,” he whispers.

 

Then the drums start.

 

Dean pulses and falls, dropping his head back. Cas falls with him, his hand dragging over his chest, supporting him with one arm.

 

_When I was a child, I heard voices_

_Some would sing and some would scream_

 

They stand, Cas’s hands on his face, his lips inches from his own.

They swirl and dip, moving away again, pirouettes perfectly in sync to the throbbing beat of the music.

 

_You soon find you have few choices_

_I learned the voices died with me_

He arches back, Cas’s movements and words echoing in his mind.

 

This is for Cas. Every move, every breath, every count. He crafts apologies with his body, pushing himself farther than he’s gone before, because perfection is what Cas deserves, and what Dean wants to give him. He fucked up, and Cas did too—but this is one thing they won’t.

 

_When I was a child, I’d sit for hours_

_Staring into open flame_

 

Whatever wasn't working before, it seems to have disappeared. Something in them just clicked. All the shortcomings of before, the little hesitations, the small imperfections—all were washed away. They _get_ each other, they understand the push and the pull—just when to give, just when to take—when they know they can fall a little farther, because the other will be there to catch them.

It’s fluid, the trust they feel as they bare their bodies, rolling Cas in his arms as he sweeps him up, lifting him into a graceful point, and feeling a strange sense of loss when he lets him go.

 

_Something in it had a power_

_Could barely tear my eyes away_

 

Dean has a natural grace to him, hidden under his practiced roughness, his choice of clothes and words—but when he dances, all his barriers melt away. Castiel has always seen it, even on stage with ten other dancers—every eye is always on Dean.

And now they’re pushing off against each other, meeting and the energy between them pulses and explodes, so that Castiel feels like he might burst. Adrenaline is running thick and hot through his blood, his grip turning ever slicker with sweat, his muscles straining, years of training and technique and rehearsal drilled into his body, fighting against the emotion in his heart that’s telling him to throw it all away. And they come to meet somewhere in the middle. Passionate and poised. Grace and style.

 

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

_Don’t you ever tame your demons_

_But always keep ‘em on a leash_

 

Castiel guides Dean by the hand, then leads his body down into a gentle dip, the muscles in his back shifting beneath his hand.

The long curve of his neck, flushed and exposed, where Castiel wants to bury his face and inhale before the moment is lost—but then they’re back across the stage, whirling and dancing again.

He doesn’t care that there’s an audience watching their every move, he doesn’t care that there’s a line of judges somewhere, he just doesn’t care. This is his and Dean’s and no one else’s. No one can ever take this away from them.

 

_When I was 16, my senses fooled me_

_Thought gasoline was on my clothes_

_I knew that something would always rule me_

_I knew the scent was mine alone_

 

He brings his hand to his face, lips, back, then front, face to face before pirouetting around, leg extends, _out, two, three,_ then hands—reaching together, grasp, he pulls him up, and—

And Cas falls, down, Dean dropping with him, they spin around to face each other again, plié and up, hands in front of face, in, quiet, extend and swing him around—

_All you have is your fire_

_And the place you need to reach_

It’s the most complicated lift they have, and a lot of arm work on Cas’s part, which is frankly a miracle, because Dean knows he isn’t exactly light—but they switch places, and Dean spins into him, bending his knees and leaping into it, just hoping, trusting that Cas catches him.

He jumps, and there’s a heart-stopping moment when he’s just falling, gravity taking its hold and he’s heading towards the floor, its rushing up to meet him, and—

Cas’s arms wrap around his middle, and they fall, Dean draping into his pose, one arm down, head tilted back, _back as far as you can_ , Cas’s hand on his throat, dragging down his chest, his chest heaving with the motion of his breath.

 

_Always keep them on a leash._

 

Cas is solid and sure at his back, Dean extends, and they switch, mirroring perfectly into a seamless fan, Cas way more flexible that he ever could be, a perfectly straight line as his legs extend, and he flips him in his arms, so they’re face to face, nose to nose, and Cas’s arms are around his neck, it’s just choreography, and it's just for a second, but it feels like home. Dean’s thumb brushing his thigh, Cas’s legs tucked high and tight up by his shoulder, his breath on his neck—and the next moment he’s kicking out, dropping him to the floor, and Dean spins out of it, down on his knees, his own moment as Cas stands quietly behind him, and Dean draws on his own style, his hip hop, breaking up and out—dropping down to his hands before Cas slides over him, one arm around his neck.

 

_When I was a man I thought it ended_

_When I knew love’s perfect ache_

 

Hands reaching out, just one last time, fingertips barely brushing.

 

 

_But my peace has always depended_

_On all the ashes in my wake_

 

And then they separate.

 

 

This is where Cas flies back, pirouetting smoothly, dropping to the floor for a brief moment before flipping over and sliding forward on his knees, hands extended.

Dean brings one hand to his head, just moving with the pulse of the music, moving incrementally, every pulse a beat, lock, nothing out of place—

 

_All you have is your fire_

 

And Cas’s hands find his face, and he brings him up, they stand together.

Dean’s hands lift shakily, on one, two, to Cas, to Cas.

 

_And the place you need to reach_

 

Dean bends, brings his hands to his back, spins him in his arms, and Cas folds against him, his eyes closed, and Dean holds him, holds him so tight.

 

 

_Don’t you ever tame your demons_

 

_Always keep ‘em on a leash_

 

 

 

 

And then it’s over.

 

 

The show's over and everything’s lost in the noise of applause and cheers as the stage lights go out.

 

Cas fumbles for him, pulling him offstage.

“Dean, that was—“

He kisses him, just once—before he’s mobbed by the other dancers, congratulating him, patting him on the back, and he loses Cas in the chaos.

           

Charlie manages to find him, and she grips his hand, smiling.

“You did it,” she breathes.

“Touch and go for a while,” Dean admits.

 

 

“Cas!”

A hand grabs his arm, and he turns, bewildered, until he sees who it’s attached to.

“Meg—“

He had seen her earlier, but hadn’t got the chance to talk. They had stuck her up in one of the handicapped chairs up front, but the view was ‘fucking terrible, who the fuck wants to crane their neck like that’, so she hobbled out during intermission and made her way backstage, where they set up a chair for her for the rest of the performance.

She’s absolutely beaming.

“Damn,” she says. “I think that boy might be better than me.”

Castiel can’t help his laugh, shaking from the adrenaline and the rush from the performance. He hugs her, and she squeezes him tightly, her voice thick.

“You were amazing, Cas,” she whispers. “I knew you would be.”

 

 

 x

 

A quiet whispering starts in the audience, and Dean looks up, frowning. The house lights haven’t come back up. He glances at Charlie, but she shrugs. Everyone backstage starts whispering too, utterly bewildered.

Then a cool voice comes over the speakers.

 

 

“Ladies and gentlemen, if we could have your patience for a moment. Thank you.”

 

 

x

 

  

Ash skids around the corner, looking wildly back and forth. He spots Castiel and instantly makes a beeline for him, looking panicked.

“Cas—“

He comes to a halt in front of him, barely able to get the words out.

“We need to put a routine on stage,” he pants. “Right freakin’ now.”

Castiel blinks at him, utterly nonplussed. Ash is generally a pretty zen guy, so to get him this worked up, something big must be going down.

“What? What are you—“

“They’re debating right now,” he blurts. “The judges said these routines needed immediate deliberation so they went up and informed Naomi and they’re going to announce it, so—“

“Holy shit,” Castiel breathes. Ash shakes his head.

“I bet you anything this is one of their stupid fucking publicity stunts,” he says, wringing his hands. “All because they want to announce it to an entire audience.”

Castiel is barely listening. He’s jumped instantly into planning mode, running through the possible routines in his mind, and really _really_ trying not to think about how right now, four people are grouped in a room, and what they decide will affect his entire life.

Ash crosses and uncrosses his arms, still waiting for his answer.

“Cas? Look—I know how shitty this is for you, but we need something—“

“Yeah,” Castiel mutters, bringing a hand to his forehead. “I’m thinking—“

“What about the trio?”

“No, Meg was in that—“

“Balthazar’s solo?”

Castiel nods quickly, gesturing vaguely out towards the curtain.

“Okay—you go let them know, I’ll get Balthazar.”

Ash nods quickly and darts off, leaving Castiel behind. He drags a hand through his hair, cursing to himself.

It’s not going to be nearly enough time, he thinks, as he practically runs towards the stage door. And Naomi’s probably having a coronary—so he needs to fix this, figure it out, and fast.

 

Castiel takes the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. If he knows Balthazar, he’ll probably be in the dressing room, trying to chat up the demonic duo, as Jo has dubbed them—

 

 

“JO!”

 

He sees her blonde hair in the stream of people moving the other way—and he grabs her arm, pulling her aside. She looks up at Castiel, bewildered.

“Cas—what—“

“Is Sam here?” Castiel blurts. Jo’s brow furrows.

“What?”

“Sam!” He repeats impatiently. “Is he here?”

She gently extracts her arm from his grip, looking at him curiously.

“Yeah, of course he’s here—“

“I need you to do your routine,” Castiel cuts in. “We have to put something onstage, and if we’ve got all three of you—“

Jo’s eyes spark with understanding, then a hint of fear.

“Shit—really?”

“Can you do it?” He asks breathlessly. “Please. Jo.”

She shakes her head, stuttering a little.

“Yeah, I guess, but—“

She cuts off, eyes dropping down to her outfit—leotard, tights, decidedly not hip-hop.

“Aw, crap,” she mutters.

 

Castiel splits out into a relieved smile, squeezing her shoulder.

“Thank you, you have no idea—“

“I gotta find Dean,” she says, backing towards their dressing room. “When—“

“Up in five,” Castiel says breathlessly.

“Shit,” Jo curses again, and runs off.

 

Castiel is left standing alone backstage, feeling strangely lost.

“Shit,” he breathes, echoing her.

 

x

 

 

Dean spies Cas from across the stage, over the mess of people streaming between them.

He’s totally freaking out, Dean can tell, and he’s about to head towards him, to calm him down—but Jo comes out of nowhere, hopping on one foot as she yanks off her shoes, talking quickly.

“I called Sam, and he’s coming now—“

“Whoa—slow down.” Dean holds up his hands. “Say that again?”

Jo shoves her jazz shoes at him, and he confusedly holds them as she rips her hair from its bun, hurriedly combing it out with her fingers.

“They need a filler performance,” she says quickly. “Cas asked us to do Look At Me Now—“

Dean gapes at her, a bolt of adrenaline spiking through him. God, if tonight hadn’t been stressful enough—

Jo snaps her fingers in front of his face.

“ _Hey_.” She spreads her hands. “You remember it, yeah? You friggin’ better—“

“Yeah, of course, but we haven’t done it in months—“

Jo grabs her shoes from him, shaking her head.

“Doesn’t matter—it’s just filler. We’ll improvise if we have to.”

Dean’s still just staring at her, trying to get his brain to catch up. Jo gives him an indignant look.

“Well?” She gestures towards him. “You gonna change or what?”

 

x

 

Dean gets to the dressing rooms just as he hears applause start up behind him—Balthazar must be starting his dance—which means he’s got barely two minutes.

He rips off the worn red Henley he had on for Cas’s dance, not really caring about modesty at this point—and digs through the mess of costumes Charlie left on the counter, finally finding his bag. He yanks on his own clothes—loose jeans, his trusty Led Zep tee—his cap, where the fuck was his snapback?

An announcement comes over the speakers and he nearly has a panic attack.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you. That was Balthazar Adams, performing his piece, _Libiamo_.”

 

 _Fuck,_ Dean says loudly, under the cover of applause, tinny as it echoes through the dressing room speaker.

 

“Up next, for your pleasure, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, and Jo Harvelle.”

 

He bolts upstairs, pushing unceremoniously past a couple people blocking the stairway, and skids in by Jo’s side, just as the lights go out, and Balthazar breezes past him. He winks at him as he passes, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

“Make it a good one, eh?”

 

Dean’s too much of a bundle of nerves to reply, just nodding tersely, eyes fixed on the still-dark house. He can see Sam on the other side of the stage, gesturing violently, but Dean ignores him.

Jo nervously straightens her shirt, walking out on to the stage to take her spot, and Dean exhales, about to follow, when—

 

“Dean—“

 

A hand grabs the back of his shirt, and Cas comes out of nowhere, Dean’s red hat in his hands.

“Cas—“

Cas just shakes his head, cramming the hat on Dean’s head and pulling him into a rough kiss. He pulls back, breathless, shoving Dean onstage without another word.

 

Dean swallows, and squares his shoulders, walking out to take his position next to Jo.

He glances to his left, meeting his brother’s eyes. Sam smiles slightly, giving him a quick nod.

Dean straightens, letting out his breath, turning out to face the faceless audience, waiting for the music to start. Like always, everything in him is heightened and tense—pulled as tight as a string ready to snap. But this time, he’s not afraid. He’s ready. They’re ready.

 

 

 

 

Then the lights come up. And they go.

 

 

 

 

x

 

 

When the short bearded man stands and reads Castiel’s name, everyone backstage goes nuts.

 

 

Jo swears and smacks Dean on the arm, punching her fist in the air. Someone bursts into tears, a couple people whoop—but mostly it’s just a cacophony of noise and chaos, and he barely notices when Lucy and Abby stalk murderously past, throwing Dean hateful stares.

He just goes.

 

He shoves through people, trying to get to the other side of the stage—he struggles through a knot of dancers, rounds the corner—

And when he sees Cas running towards him, Dean doesn’t think.

 

He reaches him, hiking him up in his arms, and then Cas’s hands are on his cheeks, kissing him, kissing him and kissing him, his eyes watering, his heart pounding, bright and hard—Cas throws his arms around his neck, holding him close.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Thank you, thank you.”

 

 

x

 

 

There’s a sort of acceptance ceremony, an awkward stretch of time where the audience shifts restlessly in their seats as the pompous assholes from the NDC do their thing—but Cas doesn’t seem to care. He’s radiant, shining with a quiet happiness that makes Dean’s heart ache. Then a couple handshakes, the wrapping up of speeches—

 

And then it’s over.

 

 

 

 

It’s a complete flurry of activity, countless people assaulting him with hugs and flowers and congratulations— and he loses Cas in the middle of it. Ellen folds him into a warm embrace, kissing his cheek and gushing enough that Dean turns slightly pink. Bobby is less verbose, a little thin and tired-looking from his time at the hospital. But he smiles, big and proud, clapping Dean on the shoulder.

“Good job, kid.”

 

Charlie and Jo turn up, hand in hand, Sam behind them, and Dean is surrounded by his family, a group of people that he never would have imagined, in his wildest dreams, would end up becoming one of the most important parts of his life. Ellen flags down someone, and they all squish together for a photo, Dean’s cheeks starting to hurt from the constant smiling—but he can’t seem to stop. He decides he doesn’t really mind.

 

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel thanks someone else, accepts another round of congratulations, and he turns around—and freezes.

Naomi steps forward, her hands twisting together.

“Castiel,” she starts breathlessly. “I—“

She stops, just looking at him. Castiel barely dares to breathe, feeling like he might vibrate out of his skin. Naomi looks like she’s been crying.

“Cas,” she says softly. “I’m—“

Castiel doesn’t let her finish. He steps forward, wrapping his arms around her. She’s stiff for a minute, like she’s not sure how to respond.

Then she deflates, hugging him back.

“I’m—I’m so proud of you, Cas,” she whispers. “So, so proud.”

 

 

x

 

Ellen and the others have already left, but Dean still has to grab his stuff from backstage, so he waits awkwardly for Sam by the stage door, standing there with the bouquet of flowers his brother had shoved into his hands with a shit-eating grin, when he catches sight of them. Cas—getting a tearful hug from his mother, and him returning it, burying his face in her neck. Dean swallows thickly, laughing a little as he shakes his head. Fuckin’ Naomi. But at least it looks like the Novaks’ relationship isn’t a total lost cause.

 

“Excuse me—are you Dean? Dean Winchester?”

 

He turns around. There’s a young guy standing there, kind of short, but he can’t be that much older than Dean. Younger, even. He looks out of place amidst the family members and dancers running around in various stages of undress and makeup. He looks kind of familiar though…maybe he was a student Dean had seen around or something.

“Yeah, uh—that's me,” he says, coughing a little as he tries to shift the flowers out of view behind his back. “What's up?”

The kid smiles, readjusting his hat, messy black hair peeking out from under it.

“Just wanted to congratulate you on that routine, man. It was great. That Castiel guy definitely deserved to win.”

Dean laughs a little, a warm spreading feeling through his chest. Shortie was alright.

“He definitely did.”

 

He sticks out a hand, smiling.

“Nice to meet you. You go to school here?”

The kid chuckles, shaking his head slightly as he takes the offered hand.

“No, sorry—didn’t introduce myself. Name’s Kevin Tran.”

  
Dean double takes.  
“What—you— _what?_ ”

Kevin laughs.

“I see you’ve heard of me.”

 

Dean realizes he’s still squeezing his hand—probably too tightly—and he quickly lets go, trying not to gawk. Of course he’s _heard_ of him—Kevin freaking Tran, the youngest (and in Dean’s opinion, best) member of the 700 crew—he had joined last year and was mainly the reason for their increase in popularity, and a fucking genius to boot. No wonder Dean didn't recognize him offstage like this—wearing those skinny jeans and an oversized jacket. If he didn’t know better, he’d just think he was just another highschooler. When he first discovered them, Dean had watched some of the Crew’s videos almost religiously, trying to recreate some of the moves—he nearly broke his arm on their kitchen table—and Christ, what the hell was he doing _here_?

 

Kevin doesn’t seem bothered by his dumbfounded silence, cutting right to the chase.

“That’s good. Maybe it’ll be easier to convince you, then,” he says, grinning.

Dean stares, trying not to hope.

“What?”

Kevin sticks his hands in his pockets, shrugging.

“Kinda happened by chance, really. We saw a poster for the competition, and one of our guys said he did a class here at Alas one time, maybe you were there? Benny?”

Dean is speechless. Sometimes if they’re lucky they get guest teachers, and a while back Pam had managed to snag someone from 700 Crew. The guy’s name was Benny, and he looked like anything but a dancer—but he was strangely graceful, and definitely knew his shit. He had taught them an absolutely killer pop lock routine, and Dean had hearteyes for the group ever since.

 

Buuuuut he’s not going to tell Kevin that.

 

“We had a night off, so a couple of us decided to go. Most of it wasn’t really my style. But that routine of yours?” Kevin blows out a breath, clear admiration on his face. “It was awesome. Never seen anything like it.”

 

Dean just stares at him for a minute, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“I—Jesus, _thank you_ , I—“

He stutters to a stop, then just breaks, letting out a ridiculously fast flood of words.

“You have no idea how much that means to me, because, shit—I mean, I know who you are, I fucking _idolize_ you, man, I went and saw the show when you came here last year, and that one routine, where you did the flip and landed on one hand, seriously, you have no idea how many times I tried that, nearly broke my goddamn arm—“

He halts to take a breath, and suddenly realizes how utterly batshit he must sound. He cringes, bringing a hand to his forehead.

“Um—crap. Sorry.”

 

But Kevin is laughing.

 

“No worries, man. Believe me, almost broke a couple things when I was learning it. But I’d be happy to give you some tips, if you want.”

Dean’s mouth goes dry.

“Seriously?” He squeaks out.

“Absolutely,” Kevin says. “Look—basically, it’s like this.”

 

He gestures towards Dean, grinning.

“We talked it over after the show—and it’s unanimous, dude. We want you.”

 

Dean’s jaw doesn’t drop, but it’s a near thing.

 

“We’ll have to talk to the official guys, obviously, go through the red tape, formal audition and whatnot, but believe me—we’d love to have someone like you on the team,” Kevin says, fishing out his wallet. “I saw in the program you still got a year left, so if you want to finish up school, that’s totally cool, but—“

He pulls out a business card, extending it towards him with a smile.

“If you’re looking for a job, give us a call.”

 

Dean takes it wordlessly, not really sure if this is happening or not.

“Seriously?” He croaks out. Kevin nods.

“Seriously.”

 

Dean turns it over in his fingers, an indescribable feeling bubbling up inside his chest, threatening to burst. It’s what he’s always wanted—secretly, desperately, helplessly wanted—and now, it’s happening.

 

“Thank you,” he says, trying to pack everything he’s feeling into those two words. “Really, I—I can’t thank you enough.”

 

“No problem. Hope to hear from you soon.”

Kevin smiles, and shakes Dean’s hand again before he leaves.

“It was great to meet you, man. And congratulations, again.”

 

He gives Dean a little wave, then pushes out the door, leaving Dean alone.

 

 

He looks back down at the card in his hand, and he brings it to his forehead, taking a deep breath.

 _Made it_ , he whispers. _Finally made it, Mom._  

 

 

 

x

 

 

Sam waves goodbye to Ellen and Bobby as they drive off, a small smile on his face. He heads back up the steps, tucking his hands in his pockets. Dean’ll probably bitch him out for taking too long, but Sam takes his time, just in case. He passed Cas on the way to the parking lot, and he wants to, well. Give them the opportunity, at least.

 

He passes by a couple stragglers, a dancer or two as he slides out his phone, glancing at the time.

“Hey—hi!”

Sam looks up, confused. One of the girls has stopped, her bag slung over her shoulder. She looks vaguely familiar.

“Yeah, you,” she says, smiling. “Talking to you.”

Sam’s hand immediately jumps to his hair.

“Oh—hey. Hi.”

He clears his throat.

“You were, uh, one of the solos right?”

She nods, leaning back against the stair rail.

“Yeah. From SF.”

During her piece, her hair had been tied back in a tight bun, but now it falls over her shoulders in loose brown waves, shining a little in the light of the street lamps.

“Just wanted to say, I liked your dance.”

Sam swallows.

“Me too. I mean, I yours too. I like you—yours,” he blurts, flushing red.

She bites her lip, fighting back a laugh.

“Madison,” she says, sticking out a hand.

“Sam,” he says, taking it.

 

He lets go after a moment, trying to discreetly wipe his sweaty palm on his pants.

“Well, um—nice to meet you, Sam,” she says. “But unfortunately I gotta take off—my flight leaves in a couple hours, so…”

“Yeah, right, ‘course.”

He gives a little awkward wave, trying to smile. Dammit, why can’t he be smooth like Dean? Why is he being so _weird_?

“I’m, uh—I’m applying to Stanford,” he blurts. “So.”

She raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Law school.”

“Well, that’s good.”

Sam looks up. Madison shrugs.

“Only a thirty minute drive,” she says, her eyes twinkling.

 

Sam just blinks at her.

 

A car honks from the parking lot, and she glances over her shoulder, frowning a little.

“Sorry, I really gotta go.”

Sam nods quickly.

“No, yeah—and um, it was nice to meet you, too.”

 

Madison smiles, but she doesn’t go. She glances at the phone in his hand.

 

“Also, now would probably a good time to ask for my number.”

 

 

x

 

Dean drives them back to their apartment, the familiar soundtrack of Metallica filling the comfortable silence between them. Sam doesn’t talk, just smiles goofily at his phone the whole way home, constantly texting someone. Must be a girl.

Well. Dean’s glad the kid’s finally getting a social life.

 

As for him, everything that happened at the theatre seems like kind of a dream. Only the ache in his muscles and the business card burning a hole in his pocket proves it wasn’t a hallucination.

 

They get home just past midnight, and Dean stops Sam on the stairs to him about 700 Crew. He thinks Sam doesn’t let him go for about five damn minutes.

 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he says gruffly, patting his back. “Keep your hair on.”

He gently prises Sam’s arms off him, and his little brother finally lets him go, his eyes looking a little misty. Dean’s throat’s feeling kinda tight, too.

“Or don’t,” he jokes, smirking. “You really do need a haircut, dude, seriously—all I need is a bowl and some scissors—“

Sam scoffs, quickly wiping his eyes.

“Over my dead body.”

 

 

They shove against each other in the hallway, but Sam beats him to the shower, so Dean retreats to the kitchen, rewarding himself with a well-deserved beer. He leans back against the fridge, scrolling through his the notifications on his phone.

 

 

**Ellen**

>> _Great job again sweetheart. Here’s that pic I promised_

 

It’s the picture they took after the show—him and Sam, sweaty but smiling, Bobby and Ellen, Charlie and Jo squished on the end. Dean smiles, and saves it.

 

**Bobby**

>> _looks lik those classes r paying off. Do I need to put out a wnt ad?_

 

**Moose**

>> _dude where are you_

 

**Charlie**

>> _LETS GET DRUUUUUUNK_

>> _retraction: I’m going out with my beautiful girlfriend and not letting you cockblock_

>> _so idk see you tomorrow_

>> _good job again, you were awesome :)_

 

**Jo**

>> _help moms threatening to take us to dennys_

 

 

Dean snorts, knocking back the last of his beer.

 

 

He kicks Sam out of the bathroom and showers quickly, briefly toweling himself dry before he tumbles into bed with just his boxers, completely bushed. He slides open the window before he crashes, searching for some sort of breeze to cut through the stuffy air of his room.

He rolls over, bunching up the pillow beneath his head, pulling his phone towards him.

He hadn’t been able to say bye to Cas, with all the people and well-wishers and judges running around—but he swipes unlock on his phone, pulling up the text from Cas again.

 

**Cas**

_> >thanks winchester._

_> >couldn’t've done it without you_

_> >let me know how you want me to pay you back_

 

 

Dean grins, and he rolls over, eyes sliding closed. He falls asleep with his phone in his hand, a stupid smile on his face

 

 

x

 

_Tap tap tap._

 

Dean grunts, shifting a little.

 

 

_Tap tap._

 

He groans, peering at the clock on his bedside table. 2:34am.

No way. Going back to sleep.

 

He buries his face in the pillows, closing his eyes.

 

 

He’s barely aware of the soft slide of his window being pushed up a little farther, and then there’s a warmth behind him, and a soft hand on his hip.

 

Dean rolls over, opening his eyes blearily. Cas is grinning sheepishly at him, dimly lit up by the streetlights outside.

“Seriously?” Dean mutters sleepily, half of his face still mashed into his pillow. “This is a little too John Hughes for me.”

Cas chuckles softly, slipping an arm around his waist.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I just couldn’t wait.”

He nudges him, a teasing tone in his voice.

“Your fault for telling me about the way up to the window, anyway.”

 

Dean grunts, hand groping for the sheet and lifting it up, so Cas can slide in next to him. He lies down next to him, and Dean curls in towards him, his eyes sliding closed again.

They’re quiet for a minute, Dean fighting against the urge to drop off again. Cas’s hand moves slowly over his hip and up his side, and he can’t believe they’re back. They’re really here again. Cas is here again.

“Thank you,” he says softly.

 

Dean opens his eyes.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers again. “I know I’ve said it already, but I don’t think I can ever—“

“You don’t have to thank me, Cas,” Dean says softly. “It was my privilege.”

He leaves it at that, but he doesn’t think he needs to explain. Cas seems to understand, because he smiles, moving in closer. He slings a leg over his, and Dean hums, tucking in closer. His cheek comes to settle on Cas’s chest, and he’s wearing too many clothes and it’s too damn hot to be close like this, but Dean wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

 

“I just can’t believe it happened,” Cas says softly. “It’s what I’ve wanted for so long and now that it’s here, I’m…”

“Lost,” Dean finishes softly. He thinks of Sam, briefly, of Cas, and the small black card on his desk.

“I know the feeling.”

 

 

They drop off into silence again, Cas’s thumb moving slowly back and forth over Dean’s arm, his heartbeat, slow and steady against his ear.

“You’re gonna be amazing, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

 

 

Cas’s heart beats a little faster. Dean looks up, slipping a hand up to his neck.

“Seriously,” he breathes. “I mean, you always have been, but now…”

He smiles.

“Now the whole world is gonna know,” he says softly.

 

Cas’s hand finds Dean’s face, and he leans his forehead to touch against his, smiling.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmurs.

 

 

They lie together, quiet for a minute, just breathing, the soft whir of the fan and the sounds of the night humming around them. Cas’s hand is warm in his.

“Now what?” He whispers.

 

Dean doesn’t answer for a minute.

“Now, sleep,” he mumbles, kissing him soft and quick. “We’ll figure out everything tomorrow.”

 

He’s almost gone, half-asleep, but he hears Cas’s soft chuckle, a returning press of lips to his.

 

 

“Okay,” he says. “Tomorrow.”

 

 

x

 

 

Castiel wakes up with the dawn, blinking blearily in the faint morning light.

He slides out from under the sheets, getting up quietly, trying not to wake Dean. He shuffles down to the bathroom, then tiptoes into the kitchen for a glass of water.

He rubs his eyes as he turns on the faucet, yawning.

“Hey, Cas.”

 

 

Castiel freezes.

 

Then he turns, to see Sam leaning against the counter, thermos in hand and backpack on. Castiel was so tired he didn’t even notice him standing there.

“Um.” He smiles guiltily.

“Hello, Sam.”

 

Sam’s eyes flick briefly down, taking in Castiel’s rumpled appearance, borrowed clothes and obviously wild hair—then back up, a smirk on his lips.

 

“Looks like you and Dean made up,” he says, taking a nonchalant sip from his travel mug.

Castiel coughs slightly, awkwardly fidgeting with the hem of Dean’s shirt.

“Um. Yeah. Guess we did.”

“Hmm.”

Sam purses his lips.

“Well, I’m glad. He was a mopey little shit without you.”

 

He turns, grabbing another couple mugs from the counter behind him, gesturing towards the coffee pot.

“Help yourself. I gotta go to class, but I’ll be back around 6 tonight.”

Castiel smiles gratefully, moving towards the counter.

“Thanks, Sam.”

 

Sam winks, grabbing his keys from the counter and heading towards the door. He pulls it open, glancing back over his shoulder.

 

 “Oh, and Cas?”

 

Castiel turns.

“Yeah?”

 

Sam smiles sweetly.

 

“If you ever break my brother’s heart again, they’ll never find your body.”

 

With that, he slips out, closing the door behind him with a sharp _click_. Castiel snorts.

 

“Duly noted.”

 

 

 

 

 

x

 

 

Two Years Later

 

 

x

 

**_one new text message_ **

****

****

_heard arsonists lullabye on the radio_

_thought of you_

 

**_Cas_ **

_:)_

_miss you_

 

**_Sent:_ **

_me too_

_got your tour date marked in my calendar_

_september 18_ _ th, _

_700 crew at the joyce theatre_

 

**_From: Cas_ **

_cant wait_

 

 

**_Sent:_ **

_hey i got a few minutes can i call you_

 

**_From: Cas_ **

_yeah im about to go into rehearsal_

_but i wanna hear your dumb voice_

 

**_Sent:_ **

_shut up_

 

**_From: Cas_ **

_love you_

 

**_Sent:_ **

_love you too cas._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! Be sure to check out the original [art post](http://hellosaidthemoonisafangirl.tumblr.com/post/131634129669/dance-is-the-hidden-language-of-the-soul-of-the), and if you want to come scream with me about Season 11, you can always hit me up on [tumblr](chevrolangels.tumblr.com).  
> ♥♥♥


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